


A Line in the Sand

by TopHatCat



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Lives, Back Pain, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Hosea Matthews Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Lenny Summers Lives, M/M, Micah Bell does not Live, Multi, Suicidal Thoughts, Video Game: Red Dead Redemption 2 (2018), but also just, choose your own ending (2 endings), more tags will be added, vandermatthews, what are tags even
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27331429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopHatCat/pseuds/TopHatCat
Summary: "Things were different than they had once been, and Hosea could hardly remember the last time Dutch extended a helping hand to anyone without expecting something in return, whether it be money or loyalty to the gang...."After Hosea saves a young mother and son, the tension between him and Dutch deepens...and the chasm of conflict within the gang widens further.(On hiatus until further notice 1/30/2021)
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Original Character(s), Hosea Matthews & Van der Linde Gang, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 33
Kudos: 57





	1. Yán

**Author's Note:**

> 'Line in the Sand' is an idiom with two similar meanings:  
> The first meaning is of a point (physical, decisional, etc.) beyond which one will proceed no further.  
> The second meaning is that of a point beyond which, once the decision to go beyond it is made, the decision and its resulting consequences are permanently decided and irreversible. 
> 
> *Rubs hands together* Alright folks, lets get the ball rolling on yet another angsty, Hosea-centric fic. Do I know how to write anything else? No, I do not. Next question please ;D  
> This is obviously a canon-divergent fix-it fic, but I do hope to carry the core of the game within the story. This is also my first time seriously writing Micah (YUCK) but it needed to be done.

“Going to look for another bear?”

Hosea glanced up from where he was seated to find Arthur grinning toothily down at him. The older man huffed out a laugh as he shoved the gun oil and rag back into his pack, the comment bringing back clear memories of that recent hunt.

“No bears,” he said, using the butt of the rifle to push himself to his feet. He winced as his knees cracked, and slung the gun over his shoulder. Arthur bent down to pick up his hunting pack, handing it over, and Hosea secured it across his chest. “Just rabbit for Pearson’s pot today, maybe a deer if I’m lucky. Hey, you want to come with me?”

Arthur shook his head, the grin on his face diminishing. “Naw, I gotta go find some debtors for Strauss. You have fun though; you deserve a chance to get out of this place!”

He motioned around Clemen’s Point, their current home, but Hosea didn’t smile. He put a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, encouraging the young man to meet his eyes. “So do you. And I _don’t_ mean to chase down Strauss’s damned debtors. Don’t run yourself ragged, Arthur.”

“You know I like hard work, ‘Sea.”

“I know,” Hosea said, though he wasn’t really sure. He watched Arthur walk away toward his horse Arrow, and wondered if that boy worked hard because it made him happy, or if it was a trait sewn into him, threaded into the life of an outlaw. He was unnerved to realize he didn’t have the answer.

 _‘I’ll take him fishing sometime soon,’_ he thought, lifting a hand as Arthur trotted out of camp toward Rhodes. _‘Give him a chance to relax, if he wants it.’_

Silver Dollar waited for him where Arrow had been hitched, and Hosea hauled himself onto the horse’s back, patting the grey neck and leaning down to feed an apple into soft lips. “I’ll be back tonight,” he called to Lenny, who was standing guard just into the trees surrounding camp. “I’m heading out for a day hunt.”

“Good luck,” the boy replied, “If I know anything about anything, you’ll bring something back for us!”

Hosea accepted the compliment with a gracious nod, then stirred Silver Dollar into a trot that carried them down the short winding path to the main road. Charles, after a hunting trip of his own, had mentioned a place called Ringneck Creek not far north of Rhodes; said the place was practically bursting with all number of small animals and the older hunter should take a look if he was ever over that way.

Though Charles had only been with them a few days shy of eight months, Hosea trusted the man’s word, particularly when it came to the subject of hunting. He’d witnessed Arthur’s skill with tracking double in the short time Charles travelled with them, as if Hosea hadn’t been trying to teach him for years. He wasn’t jealous though…and secretly thought that perhaps Arthur’s keenness to learn had less to do with the lesson and more to do with the teacher.

A shot suddenly sounded from ahead, pulling Hosea from his thoughts. He reined in Silver Dollar, looking around for the source but saw nothing. The road met tracks just ahead, but the terrain was too uneven to see much beyond the crossing.

“Come on, friend,” Hosea said, urging Silver forward again, “Let’s see what this is about.”

The horse responded easily, unperturbed by the shots, too used to being chased by gunshots over the years to flee. A short distance past the tracks Hosea’s was able to see around a small hill and he immediately found the source of the noise.

A little ways down, where the road curved, a carriage was stopped, sitting crookedly on the edge of the path. Hosea swiftly attributed the haphazard parking job to the fact that the single horse was shot dead, and the body of the driver was lying in the road, almost certainly put there by the four masked men standing at the carriage door.

“You!” he heard across the space between him and the group. “Hand over your money, now!”

They hadn’t noticed him, too focused on their business, and Hosea hesitated to pull the reins either way. It would be easy enough to ride off and cut across the grass to the creek, simple to ignore the whole thing. After all, who was he to deny folks a successful robbery? He’d had enough witnesses hollering about getting the law while _he_ was the one holding up a coach, and chasing after them was a bother and a hassle when all he wanted was a few bucks to buy Arthur a new shirt.

He had just made the decision to avoid the situation completely when another statement drifted to his ears:

“Purse, jewels, all of it! I ain’t afraid to shoot the kid if you don’t move fast enough, lady!”

Something inside Hosea snapped the other way. His spurs touched Silver Dollar perhaps a little harder than was necessary, something he would have to apologies for later, getting the horse up to a trot as he continued down the road directly toward the bandits.

As he approached, guns still in their holsters, the man watching the road leveled his rifle at him.

“Fellas,” he warned his companions, then yelled out, “Hey, old timer! Watch where you ride!”

Hosea brought Silver to a slow stop a few yards from the man, keeping his posture relaxed. “Last I checked, sirs, this was a public road.”

“Sure,” the bandit replied, “But this is a private affair. You’d best get on, old man.”

Hosea leaned back in the saddle a bit, too accustomed to such things for much fear to affect him. The very real danger that the family inside the carriage faced, however, was eating at his heart, making it beat a tad faster than it may otherwise. His eyes bounced from bandit to bandit, assessing. There was the one facing him, of course, then two more by the door, and the third stood between. All had guns drawn.

In the short space of time he had to form a plan, Hosea wasted a second wishing Arthur was with him, or Dutch, Both of them had always been a faster draw than he, able to take out men before they even knew they were being shot at. Gunfights had never been where Hosea’s skill lay, so he’d have to handle this the way he knew how.

“I don’t want any trouble, gentlemen,” he said, lifting his hands away from his guns. “I’m just on my way to Emerald Ranch. I’m interested in their sheep, you see.”

“So you’re a buyer, then?” the one with the rifle asked, and his buddy behind him glared.

“What do we care, Lee? Just shoot him and-.”

“Hold on!” the rifle wielding bandit snapped before looking to Hosea again. “I said, you a buyer?”

“I am indeed,” Hosea replied, controlling the smile that wanted to creep up onto his face. “Just looking to purchase some sheep! Fifty or so, I’ve got a ranch-.”

Lee suddenly looked very pleased with himself. “Fifty, eh? Then you’re carrying quite a sum on you! Alright, get off your horse. Nicky, search his saddlebags.”

Hosea did as he was told, but as he swung himself out of the saddle he said in a low voice, “Flee,” into Silver Dollar’s ear. The moment his boots hit the ground, the horse took off like a shot through the trees and up a hill.

“My certificates!” Hosea shrieked, and Lee swore in a string of curses.

“Dammit-! Someone get after that animal!”

The third and a fourth bandits, the ones by the carriage door, bolted for their own horses, leaping on and taking off after Silver Dollar. Hosea shielded his eyes against the sun to watch the chase, feeling pleased. There was no way Silver would be caught, not with an empty saddle and no hands to check his reins. Turning around toward the carriage, he caught sight of two startled faces looking out the door at him, one young, one very young, and he sent them a very small nod before planting his hands on his hips.

“Now look what you’ve done! My horse has run off and left me without transportation or the means to buy another. How will I get to Emerald Ranch now?”

“You won’t be needing a horse if you keep irritating me,” Lee said, the glare on his face showing just how annoyed he was with how the situation was going. “Go on, get in the carriage with the other two. If you’re lucky, maybe _none_ of you will die, but I doubt it!

“You’ve _ruined_ by prospects!” Hosea cried, lifting his voice to a shrill pitch, and Lee growled, stepping toward him.

“I’ll ruin more than that, old man!” the bandit said, reaching for his arm, and Hosea acted.

His left hand took hold of the rifle’s barrel, pushing it upwards so it pointed into the sky while his right drew his Cattleman, sending a bullet point-blank into the bandit’s middle. While the dead man’s body still shielded him, he sent a second shot toward Nicky but missed, the bullet thudding into the side of the carriage.

Lee’s body fell and Hosea dove to the side, drawing his second revolver and shooting almost recklessly toward the bandit. He heard a bullet whiz past his ear, felt a burst of pain flare up his side as he landed heavily on the dirt road, but when he collected himself a moment later, both bandits were lying on the ground, dead.

A groan escaped him as he pushed himself to his knees, then his feet, and holstered his guns. Rubbing his hip, he limped over to the door of the carriage and peered inside, narrowing his eyes to see into the shadows of the small curtained room.

Sitting huddled in the backseat was a young Chinese woman, and in her lap was a small boy, not past four years of age, his face hidden in her chest. She gasped and clutched the child closer when Hosea appeared at the door, shrinking further into the corner.

Hosea at once recognized them to be wealthy, or at least well off, by the fabric of her green dress and the jeweled brooch at her neck. No wonder they had been stopped; the pin alone would feed a man for a month, if he was smart about the money. Trying to soften his expression, he held out a hand to her.

“You’re alright, my dear,” he said, hoping his tone was kind enough to trust. “You’re safe. But we’d best move on from this place before the other two return.”

She didn’t say anything, perhaps shocked from the encounter, but she did accept his hand. Her palm was soft, further confirming his idea that she lived a high-society life, and her fingers gripped his as tightly as she held the boy to her. She let him get them both out of the carriage, then her eyes widened at the sight of the driver lying in the road. The boy was set to the ground and she took a few steps toward the body, hand fluttering to her mouth as she breathed out, “George.”

“I’m sorry,” Hosea said, and she looked back at him, tears in her eyes.

“My husband,” she said, and looked down at the boy. “His father,” she added, drawing him close so his face was hidden in her skirt, and Hosea’s sorrow deepened.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, then looked away over the empty road and hill toward the sound of hoofbeats. “We have to go.”

Silver Dollar came galloping up to them, the sparse trees behind him void of pursuers, and Hosea gave him a good scratch to the cheek, saying, “Well, aren’t you just the cleverest boy?”

The woman, still shielding the boy from the sight of his dead father, gathered a carpet bag from the carriage and then simply stood waiting as Hosea readied the horse for them.

“Is that all?” he asked, nodding to the single luggage.

“It is what is important,” she said as he attached the bag where a turkey or rabbit would usually hang after a hunt. “We cannot take my husband’s body, though my heart wants it.”

It was true that they could faster travel with less things, especially with three of them on one horse, and to remain here on the side of the road for much longer was unwise. “Where were you headed?”

“Emerald Ranch,” she replied. “But it is far, sir, you should not feel like you must help us.”

“A bit too late for that, hm?” Hosea said with a smile. “I don’t have anything more important to do than assist a mother and her son. What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Yán Green. And my son, Benji. Yours, sir?”

“Hosea Matthews.”

“Thank you, Mr. Matthews.”

She seemed too shaken to say much more than that, and he saw her hug the boy closer against her, as if afraid he would be taken from her as well. Hosea’s heart ached at the sight. He knew all too well what it was like to lose a loved one, someone who was both partner and a friend, and he admired her bravery in the face of such loss. It was an understatement to say he had not been so composed after Bessie’s passing.

But those were dark thoughts for another time. Finished with readjusting his bedroll so it was fixed to the side of Silver’s saddle instead of the back, he lifted the Benji up, then laced his fingers to create a step for Yán before pulling himself up behind both of them. Reaching around her, he took the reins and began a brisk walk away from the scene of the crime, leaving the carriage abandoned and alone with the body of Yán’s husband.

Yán was correct, it wasn’t a short ride, and they stopped for lunch near a stream. Hosea had crackers and jerky in his pack, and Yán had a blanket in the carpet bag that they laid out under a tree.

“Like a picnic,” Hosea said to Benji. “Can you help your mother with the blanket?” He looked to Yán. “Mum? Mama?”

“Mama,” she confirmed, and Hosea smiled down to the boy, who was staring up at him with eyes that were wary but not quite scared.

“Can you help Mama?”

The activity seemed to cheer up both mother and child a bit, and a small smile ghosted over Yán’s face as she watched Benji try to catch frogs along the bank. Hosea tried to settle himself more comfortably on the blanket, (that dive to the ground had done nothing good for his bones) and asked,

“Do you have a place to go? Once you get to Emerald Ranch?”

“We found a new house before leaving the old one,” Yán said, taking a small bite of cracker. “A little place to the north….” She trailed off, perhaps thinking of the house that would be hard to call a home with the man of it so newly gone, and the cracker was set aside to the blanket, unfinished.

Before long they were travelling again, and Hosea filled the silence by talking about the animals and plants they passed, naming songbirds, and pointing out the deer that watched them with large, soft eyes from the shelter of trees.

“What does that plant do?” Yán began asking after they had been riding for a while and he’d revealed his aptitude for vegetation. “How do I use it?”

Hosea was more than happy to comply, swiftly advising her on the uses of various leaves and roots, and warning against the poisonous ones. As his mother’s tone changed, switching from sorrowful to inquisitive, Benji mirrored her curiosity, pointing to every bright flower they passed with the accompanying question, “What’s _tat_?”

In this way they passed the rest of the ride rather peacefully, and encountered no troubles. The sun was past the highest point in the sky when they crested a hill and saw Emerald Ranch laid out below them. Yán let out a long sigh that Hosea interpreted as relief, and she looked over her shoulder at him.

“Please take us to the station, Mr. Matthews. We will find our path from there.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?” he asked when he was helping her out of the saddle to the station’s platform. Taking Benji beneath his arms, he lowered the boy to the floorboards. “Is there anything else I can do for you? Find a horse, or a carriage?”

Yán’s hand found his. “You have done so much for us. We will survive from here.”

He searched her face and found such determination in her eyes that he was nearly moved to tears. “You’re very brave, my dear,” he said softly, “I know what it’s like to lose someone, and I…well, I was never as strong as you.”

“We have had you to give us strength,” Yán replied, her other hand going to Benji’s hair, smoothing it. “The memory of your kindness will be held in my heart. The words you speak and the conversation between us is what I will remember when I am weak.”

“You flatter an old man,” Hosea said. “Let me get you your bag, and then I’ll be sad to say goodbye.”

It was only after he was riding away from where the two of them waved on the platform, that he realized it hadn’t even crossed his mind to invite them to camp. Sure, it wasn’t the best place for a mother and child, to be surrounded by vagrants and vagabonds, but there had been plenty of helpless folk filtered through the gang over the years.

Of course…it had been a long time since they’d helped any such people like Yán and Benji. Things were different than they had once been, and Hosea could hardly remember the last time Dutch extended a helping hand to anyone without expecting something in return, whether it be money or loyalty to the gang. A cold weight grew in his chest as he failed to recall the last time _he_ had offered assistance to anyone in a way that didn’t benefit him in some way or another.

And yet he had been perfectly happy to accept Yán’s thanks as payment. He even would have been satisfied without it…as long as he could see them standing on that platform, safe and sound.

Twisting in the saddle again, he looked back at the station. The distance that separated it from him was too much to be able to pick them out, but he knew they were there…because of what he had done.

But Yán had not thanked him for killing the bandits, nor even for the ride to Emerald Ranch. Her gratitude had come because he had _talked_ with her, talked about animals and plants, and named flowers for her son. For a short time, the gash in her heart had been fixed by a stranger.

He and Dutch used to be each other’s needle and thread, sewing the other’s heart up at the first sign of a tear, but lately he felt the words he used were knives, _creating_ the fissures that only grew deeper as every day passed. And when his healing words didn’t yield results, he turned bitter and angry, lashing out at Dutch instead.

 _‘Perhaps it’s me,’_ he thought. _‘Maybe I’m the one who’s changed, not him.’_

It was not the first time the thought had crossed his mind, and it worried him to no end. When Abigail or Arthur thanked him for a trivial task he’d done for them, or Jack ran up with a book asking him to read a story, he felt that he was worth something, that he meant something to the people he loved.

But the look in Dutch’s eyes sometimes…the wary, accusatory glare, and the way he said, “You used to believe in me, Hosea, remember?” it stripped away everything he thought about himself and he found himself looking at another version of who he was. A version that, quite simply, wasn’t good enough anymore.

In front him, Silver Dollar tossed his head, snorting, and Hosea cracked a smile, reaching down to pat the horse’s neck. “You’re right, friend. I’m out here to do some hunting, not worry. An old man’s fears aren’t worth much anyway.”

There was still plenty of light left in the sky, and with luck he could still bring back a catch in time for Pearson to put into the stew pot. Though the cook’s meals didn’t exactly make Hosea’s mouth water, the thought of getting home and having hot food was a welcoming one. Trying to shake all misgivings and self-doubt from his shoulders in favor of what the rest of the day would hold, he guided Silver back south toward Ringneck Creek.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to name this chapter, oops. Lotsa painfulness.

Hosea found the creek as plentiful as Charles had promised. Even standing at the top of the hill, looking down into the small valley that was really more of a dip in the earth, he could see squirrels running here and there, and a rabbit drinking from the stream. Overhead, birds sang out from the trees, unperturbed by his presence. Tugging his varmint rifle from the saddle, he looped Silver’s reins loosely over a branch.

“Rest and graze a while,” he said quietly, so as not to startle the wildlife. “I’ll be back before too long.”

He descended the hill to the stream, holding onto small trees so as not to slip on the fallen leaves covering the ground, and made it to the creek without falling on his behind. Once his boots were at the edge of the water, he scoped out a place to sit; somewhere hidden but with no bushes to obstruct his view was always best, and some rocks looking over a pool that swam with fish became his spot of choice. No doubt plenty of animals would come down for a drink, and he could enjoy the ambience in the meantime. 

As he sat, enjoying the dappled sunlight that came down through the leaves and sparkled on the water, his thoughts wandered, touching upon Yán and her son. Despite her assurances they would be fine, he couldn’t help but wonder if there was more he could have done. As strong in spirit as Yán seemed to be, she was obviously a city dweller at heart, and this area of country was nowhere near civilized. Though he didn’t doubt she had some tricks up her sleeve, it was highly unlikely she knew how to hunt for game or set a trap. He tried to imagine a gun in her soft hands but the picture was difficult to conjure, and his mind went further back to another woman, one who held a hunting rifle as if she had been born with it in her grasp….

Hosea didn’t have as many years of memories with his mother as he would have liked, but the ones he had he looked back on fondly. Some of his favorite times to reminisce on were when they hunted together. Growing up secluded in the mountains meant hunting for their own meals and foraging the resources necessary for survival, so it didn’t take Hosea long to pick up the skills his mother taught him.

“All of this is useful,” she’d say as she guided the knife in his hands over the carcass of a deer. “What we don’t eat, we use for clothing, and what we can’t use we sell. Don’t waste any part of an animal; God created the form of its body for a reason, and to waste it is to say that God didn’t know what He was doing.”

“Did He know what He was doing?” Hosea asked, and his mother had chuckled.

“Well, maybe He didn’t do  _ everything _ right, but when it comes to animals, He did pretty good.”

His mother had been a rather pessimistic woman, always expecting the worst in everything and everyone, but when it came to nature, and the plants and animals that inhabited it, her eyes lit up and Hosea saw a joy in her that was otherwise stifled by the darkness of her mind.

After she died, Hosea hunted to remember her, and at some point he forgot the reasons behind why he was putting a bullet through an animal’s skull. In the year he met Dutch, he shot a huge buffalo, the biggest animal he’d ever taken down, and came back to camp to boast about it, half drunk with excitement.

Dutch just sat and looked up at him in the firelight. “Why?” he asked.

“Why what?”

“Why’d you shoot it?”

Hosea had stumbled over some explanation about the difficulty of doing a such a thing, and what a feat it was, all the while feeling the ecstasy of the kill dwindle with each feeble word until he was left staring at Dutch’s disapproving face, and stood there wondering  _ why _ he’d done it. They didn’t need the food, and there was no way in hell they would be able to get the entire animal down to town to a butcher or tanner.

When he and Dutch went back to the buffalo’s carcass to harvest what they could carry, his mother’s voice sounded in his head for the first time after many years.

“We’re not here long, kid,” she had said as he cried over the first deer he shot, kneeling by its delicate, motionless body. “Same as this deer, same as these trees. We’re here to survive like everything else for a while and then we’re dead.” She leaned over, putting an arm around his shoulder, wiping his tears with the hem of her shirt. “Why’d you shoot this doe, Hosea?”

“So we can eat dinner,” he’d sniffled, “And we can sell her hide to buy a new kettle.”

“See?” she said, “We’ve done what a mountain lion would, or a wolf. We hunted her because she will benefit us, help us survive. Nothing more, nothing less.”

After the buffalo, Hosea never again hunted exclusively for sport. Every deer, every bear, every fish…every part of it, from meat to hide to antler, went to the camp pot or a butcher’s stall. The thrill of the chase was still very present in his heart, bolstered by the memory of the stars in his mother’s eyes when she saw the bear they had tracked for miles, but it did not consume him.

In the early days of the gang, Hosea had been the one putting meat over the fire, as Dutch was almost useless when it came to hunting. The man had been all loud steps and complaints about being bored when Hosea had tried to teach him. When Arthur showed interest and talent for the activity, Hosea leapt on the chance for a helper. He hadn’t expected to find such happiness in teaching the boy or spending the day out and about with him, showing him how to fell a deer and skin it. The trips reminded of times with his mother, and there was pride in being able to pass on all that she’d taught him.

These days, even with the gang full of younger men, Hosea still saw hunting as his and Arthur’s duty. Of course, it was also a reason to get away from the chaos of camp, something he knew Arthur sought more than he. These days, when they’d go out together, just the two of them, the outings were bright spots in what was fast becoming a rather gloomy existence.

Thinking about the recent situations of the gang drew Hosea back to the present and the creek he sat by. He had been sitting long enough now that the rabbits had overcome their skittishness about approaching the water, and hopped down to the rocky bank. The lateness of the day told him that he’d likely only be able to get one rabbit, as the rest would flee at the gunshot and take their time in returning, but he’d observed the pool long enough to see that fishing a few bluegills out might not take long. Besides, he was getting stiff from sitting so long, and staying out in the chill of night would do him no good.

But first, the rabbit.

As he lifted the barrel of the rifle, slowly so as not to startle his prey, he felt a small tickle in the back of his throat.

_ ‘Not now,’  _ he thought, trying to swallow the feeling, but it persisted, growing to an itch.  _ ‘Just let me get a shot off!’ _

The first cough came when his finger hit the trigger, and the rifle wavered, the bullet sending up a spray of dirt at the rabbit’s heels. They scattered, and Hosea tried to swear, but the words stuck just behind his tongue and came out in a garbled hack.

His hunting pack was woefully empty of a water canteen, but he knew he’d just choke on it anyway. He’d made an herbal blend that would give him some relief, but it was in his saddlebag, which meant he would have to ascend the hill while his lungs made a desperate attempt to escape his ribcage. Heart beating suddenly loudly in stark contrast to the calm nature of the clearing, Hosea heaved himself to a standing position and made for the top of the hill where Silver waited, patient and calm.

The small trees that had kept him from falling down the hill earlier now assisted him in the return climb, their delicate branches shaking as he hauled himself upward by the trunks. A few leaves drifted down, settling on his shoulders and the brim of his hat, but they went unnoticed along with everything else besides the painful inhale and exhale of breath that refused to cooperate. Dragging his eyes up from the ground, Hosea surveyed the distance he still had to go, and another pathetically shallow breath entered his lungs as he took a step forward.

He felt the ground give out almost before it did, as the leaves his boots landed on shifted downward and the loose dirt hidden beneath followed suit. All the air his lungs had collected was dismissed in a single exhalation when the length of his body slammed into the forest floor. He lay there a long moment, facedown in dead leaves, gasping to refill his lungs, but it seemed that the jolt had been exactly what they needed to start working again, and after a while he could breathe normally.

“Could have been worse,” he muttered, relaxing his fingers from where they’d dug into the earth to stop a backwards slide downhill. Planting his hands on the ground, a hot spark of pain flickered between his shoulder blades, but he ignored it in favor of getting up and returning home.

A mistake, he quickly realized, as he tried to push himself to his knees. The spark doubled to a flare that blossomed over his entire back, drawing a choked gasp from his throat and sending him back to the ground. The moment he was motionless again, the pain receded to become a dull, threatening burn.

Hosea’s muscles were trembling, fear keeping him from moving with his forehead pressed to the ground. “It’s worse,” he breathed, staring at the leaf in his line of sight. An ant scrambled over it, heading toward his hairline, but Hosea didn’t dare shift position yet.

He had been finding himself in this situation more and more lately. Not lying in the middle of a forest at sunset, specifically -this was a new one- but the simple predicament of not being able to move as effortlessly or spontaneously as he once had.

Again he wished Arthur had come along.

_ ‘No, I don’t,’  _ he corrected himself.  _ ‘Don’t need him worrying about me when he already worries enough.’ _

A stick was jabbing uncomfortably into his cheek and he lifted his head carefully, experimentally. The pain stayed quiet, lurking just beyond any sharp movement, flickering like a warning at his nerves as he turned his eyes toward the top of the hill.

If he could just get to Silver…or better yet, get Silver to come to him, he could figure something out.

“Here!” he called, then winced as the burn flared up. “Here,” he said, quieter, and forwent the whistle he’d been planning on. There was no need; Silver Dollar appeared at the crest and slowly made his way down the hill toward his incapacitated rider. A velvety nose soon snuffled at Hosea’s face and the man smiled.

“We’re going to have to work together here, friend.” Taking a few deep breaths, Hosea rolled over onto his side, letting out a cry that had Silver flinching back in confusion. “Sorry,” he gasped when he had enough sense to speak again. “Alright…can you lay down for me?”

They had practiced lying down many times, even used it in dangerous situations here and there, but the command was always accompanied by a physical cue, a pat to Silver’s chest, something that was impossible to do at the moment.

“Lay down,” Hosea said sharply, trying to put the same energy into his tone as he usually did when issuing instruction. “Lay down, Silver Dollar.”

If Silver did not respond, Hosea didn’t know what the hell he was going to do. Spend the night in a damp forest, probably; the moist chill of rotting leaves was already seeping into his body where he lay against the earth. But Silver was an old friend and a clever companion, and after a moment in which he perhaps assessed the situation and the steepness of the hill, he folded his knees and lay down, settling to the ground beside Hosea with a huff of breath.

“Good boy! You’re going to get an unfathomable number of treats later.”

This was the point Hosea had been dreading. Raising an arm at an excruciatingly slow pace, he settled his hand on the saddle, trying to get a solid grip for his next movement. Taking a long slow breath in and out, he knew there was only so much mental preparation he could do, and he tracked the path his body would have to take in order to get into the saddle. A few feet had never looked more like a mile than it did in that moment.

“On the count of three,” he said to Silver. “One, two-!”

He didn’t bother saying the final number, putting all his effort and focus into slinging his leg over the saddle and using his arm to haul the upper half of his body forward at the same time. His brain told him to scream, but the white-hot inferno spreading across his body locked every muscle in place, keeping even a squeak from passing his lips. A bright flash, like the light of a camera bulb, popped in his vision and he didn’t feel the saddle, or Silver, couldn’t feel anything but the sensation of being on fire.

When he came to, his face was pressed into Silver Dollar’s neck, his nose filled with the scent of warm, musty horsehair. Silver hadn’t gotten up, and Hosea was still in the saddle. Sure, he was aching from head to toe and scared to even breathe wrong lest the pain start up again, but he was in the saddle.

“Up,” he wheezed, fingers gripping the edge of the leather to steady himself as Silver heaved them to a standing position. “Let’s get on home.”

The ride was a terrible one, even with Silver walking as slow as physically possible and Hosea trying to avoid the bumpiest terrain by sticking to the road. Nausea was creeping up on him as he swayed in the saddle and when he thought about trying to dismount upon reaching camp, he groaned out loud.

“What a day!” he said to the starry sky that stretched overhead to gently touch the distant horizon. “What a day….”

Sean was standing guard when Silver came up the trail to camp, the young man peering into the darkness to identify the lone rider.

“You’re back late!” he piped up when Hosea spoke a weary hello. “Bring anything back?”

“Only aches and pains,” Hosea snapped, and Sean shrugged, facing the trees again without comment, and Hosea felt a twinge of regret for taking his hurt out on the young man.

Silver ambled up to the hitching post Hosea never bothered hooking him up to and the old man sat for a moment, putting off the inevitable dismount as long as he could. Sitting there, he had a good view of the camp, from Pearson’s wagon to Arthur’s tent, and the scout fire to his right. The hour was late enough that everyone looked to be asleep; even Kieran, who rarely slept, was curled up snoring by a rock, and Hosea made a mental note to find the boy a blanket in the morning.

“Okay,” he breathed when the chill of night began to penetrate his coat. He knew that whatever he did, he’d have to land on his feet or he’d never get up, and Sean would find him lying in the dewy grass, as helpless as a fish on dry land. He took the saddle in a tight grip and slid one leg over, freezing when his back spasmed suddenly. As the shock faded, he shifted again, bending over Silver’s neck so his stomach rested on the saddle. In a single movement he slid his other foot free of the stirrup and dropped both feet the distance to the ground.

The white at the edges of his vision threatened to overcome him again, but he fought the buckling of his knees, fingers turning pale where he held onto the saddle like it was a lifeline. His nose pressed hard against the musty leather and he focused on the smell of it to stay grounded as the rest of his body screamed in protest of the dismount. He was suddenly glad he had come back home so late, to be spared the shame of returning like this for everyone to see.

_ ‘Can’t let them…see…how useless you are.’ _

Even his thoughts fought to remain stable as he stood there by Silver for a good couple of minutes, letting his body settle. Finally, however, he felt he could move, and weakly patted Silver’s neck.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “I’m a lucky feller to have you by my side.”

Silver Dollar acknowledged him with a slow blink and Hosea moved toward the center of camp, testing out his steps. He could walk at least, as long as they were smooth, even strides, and that was something to be thankful for.

There was a light in Dutch’s tent and Hosea passed his own bedroll, trekking a path toward the closed flaps. He had come back rather later than he planned…he wondered if Dutch noticed he was gone. A part of him felt guilty for causing the man any worry, but a small portion hoped Dutch had felt his absence at camp throughout the day. It would be good to talk to him before bed; to end the day on a high note.

He had just reached the front of the tent when the flaps were pushed open from inside and Dutch stepped out, a cigar in his hand. The outlaw was dressed solely in his union suit and pants, telling Hosea he was about to go to sleep.

“Hosea!” he said when he saw the man approaching. “I thought you’d decided to spend the night out of camp.”

He  _ had  _ noticed his absence. Hosea smiled and shook his head before his back quickly reminded him why that may not be the best idea. “No, I didn’t feel like spending the night alone in wild country tonight. I’ve had quite the day.”

Dutch lit his cigar while they spoke and took a puff from it now, sending smoke into the air. “Arthur said you went hunting?”

“I tried, but….” he almost chuckled, the comfort of home making the day’s events seem less severe. “Well, I can say that I brought back a new story to tell.”

“A story doesn’t keep us fed, Hosea.”

He blinked at the unexpected harshness of the rebuttal. “I know that, Dutch, but-.”

“Come on, Hosea.” Dutch frowned through the cigar smoke, not at him, but out toward the rest of camp. “I thought you were supposed to be good at hunting. Keeping our bellies full, that’s always been your job.”

There it was, creeping into his stomach like he’d eaten spoiled meat; that sick feeling that afflicted him increasingly often when he talked with Dutch these days. Why did it plague him now? It was a perfectly logical point Dutch made…he  _ had _ spent the whole day out and brought nothing back to show for it. He might as well be Uncle, lazing about all day with hardly a penny put in the box.

_ ‘But your time today wasn’t wasted,’  _ some part of his mind reminded him.  _ ‘What about Yán? What about her son?’ _

“My story will explain-,” he began, sure Dutch would be intrigued by the day’s happenings, but he cut himself off as the tent flaps parted again and Micah stepped out. “Oh. I didn’t realize you two were conversing in there.”

“Good to see you too, old man,” Micah said sarcastically, and Hosea shot a sideway glance at Dutch.

“Where’s Molly?”

Dutch made a dismissive noise that Hosea didn’t care for. “Off somewhere, I guess,” he said, waving the hand that held his cigar. A trail of smoke followed it through the still air. “You know how she gets.”

“She’s a woman,” Micah chuckled, but it was a cold sound, one that only hardened Hosea against him further. “You know how they are. I bet your…what was her name, Bessie? Bet she made you mad enough sometimes that you wanted to kick her out the door.”

“I don’t know ‘how they are’,” Hosea replied, his voice steely. He looked to Dutch, but the outlaw was looking carefully away from the men he stood by, eyes focused on the grazing horses across camp. All of a sudden Hosea wanted to get away from him, away from  _ both  _ of them, and the tainted air that hung thick around them. “And no, I’ve never thought I had the authority to kick a woman out of her own tent. Maybe if you had the same damn principles, women would actually  _ want _ to talk to you!”

Dutch looked at him then, but the annoyed expression on his face was far from the sympathy Hosea craved. Micah’s eyes had darkened under his furrowed brow, and his shoulders tilted forward a fraction like he wanted to do something physical in response, but Hosea knew that, however sociable he and Dutch were becoming…such an action against the gang’s co-founder would not stand in this camp.

Instead, Micah slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder and laughed. “I’m joking, old man! You’re always so serious!  _ Live _ a little!”

Spots of white jumped in front of Hosea’s eyes at the contact as his body angrily responded to the jarring motion. It took all his strength of will not to gasp in pain, but perhaps he didn’t do such a good job of hiding the feeling as he hoped, for Dutch’s gaze suddenly stopped wandering, focusing hard on his face.

“Enough,” the outlaw said. “I don’t see the point in this conversation.” He glanced about for a place to stub his cigar, found none, and frowned. “I’m going to bed.”

“Real good idea,” Micah said. “’Night, boss.”

Dutch nodded, but didn’t move, and Micah’s mouth twisted a bit before he headed off toward wherever the hell Micah sleeps, I honestly have no idea, I never cared to check. Hosea took the exchange as an opportunity to compose himself and when he focused on the world again, Dutch was looking at him. A moment passed in which they simply stared at each other, Dutch’s furrowed brow becoming a little smoother, and Hosea’s heart dared to hope that-.

“I…,” the outlaw began, his voice a tad rougher than usual, then stopped. “Goodnight, Hosea.” He turned back toward the tent, but his movements were halting, hesitant. Hosea knew what he was waiting for; an order to stay, a spoken word that would force him to turn back and acknowledge the man behind him. But Hosea was far too tired to deal with whatever mood would come out of it.

“Goodnight, Dutch,” was all he replied, and watched the man spring forward and disappear through the canvas flaps like he’d been released from an invisible tether.

A deep breath left Hosea’s aching chest and he slowly walked back toward his own bed. He was still sleeping with Charles and Bill; he kept forgetting to get himself a new tent, and absolutely refused Abigail’s offer of taking the lean-to back.

“What would we do if Jack caught a cold sleeping out in the open?” he asked her, and she crossed her arms and shook her head at that.

“What would we do if  _ you  _ catch cold? I don’t understand why you can’t share with Dutch like you used to! His tent is big enough, and Molly’s spending more nights next to Karen and the girls anyway.”

“You know Dutch,” Hosea had chuckled. “He needs his comforts.”

“I know him,” she retorted. “I know he can be a selfish bastard, especially when it comes to you. Only these days it’s working against you instead of for you.”

But he had not taken their shelter, and now he stood looking at his bedroll wondering how the hell he was supposed to get down to it. An experimental shift of his knees woke the fire demon in his back and he froze, biting the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood. He remained standing there long enough that Charles, who lay in the middle space on his back, opened his eyes and peered upwards at him.

“Mr. Matthews?” he asked quietly, so as not to wake Bill, who lay next to him, facing away and snoring. When no response came immediately, Charles propped himself up on his elbows. “Is something wrong?”

Hosea let out a laugh that was warped with pain. “Can’t…seem to lie down, if you can believe it,” he managed, and Charles sat up further.

“Should I get Arthur?”

Hosea shook his head quickly, then shuddered as a spasm wrecked its way down his spine. “No. That boy has enough to worry about without adding a little back ache to his plate.” Sluggish and reluctant, he turned back toward the center of camp. “I’ll just find myself a chair to sit down in.”

Charles was on his feet in a moment. He didn’t touch Hosea, didn’t take his arm or grasp his shoulder, but his sudden close presence was enough to make the older man pause in his movement anyway. “I can help you,” Charles said, adding, “If you’ll let me,” when Hosea’s eyes flicked up to meet his.

Hosea hesitated before answering. There was nothing more he would like than to lie down and fall asleep. It sounded a hell lot better than sitting stiff and cramped in a chair all night, but it came at the cost of being handled like some helpless invalid. Damn his pride…he wasn’t what he once was; he had little to be prideful of anymore. He’d trade an evening of shame for a good night’s rest…and it was Charles, after all. There was no pity or judgement in the man’s tone, nor his eyes, and that alone was more than Hosea could ask for.

“Alright,” he conceded. “If you want to help this old conman, he’ll allow it.”

He turned around again and Charles moved to stand in front of him, boots straddling the bedroll so as not to dirty it. Experiencing an odd mix of embarrassment and relief, the older man held out his arms in submission.

Charles took control without hesitation. His hands gripped the underside of Hosea’s biceps, locking their arms together in a sturdy grasp. “Keep your back straight,” he guided, and Hosea didn’t bother replying, too focused on keeping his spine as vertical as possible. His fingers dug hard into the top of Charles’s arms, too hard for comfort, as his knees slowly bent toward the ground, but the other man didn’t flinch once and Hosea marveled at the ease with which Charles held his weight. His own arms were tiring, shaking with fatigue, but the other man remained as steady as a rock until Hosea’s knees touched the bedroll and his weight was transferred completely to his legs.

“Ah- we made it,” he wheezed, disgusted by how much that simple movement had taken out of him. His hands were still locked around Charles’s arms and he felt the soft ‘hm’ rumble through the firm muscles.

“Not quite yet. Do you want to lay on your stomach?”

“Of course; it’s more comfortable, I’ve found. I only lay on my back in a bed.” A small, hysterical bubble of laughter rose to his throat. “That’s not a sex joke.”

He felt more than saw Charles smile; he could feel it in the way the man moved, and it made him feel a little better. “Thank you, son…if I’m on my hands and knees I can get down myself.”

That was a lie; it took Charles holding his weight again to get him all the way to the bedroll, but eventually he was lying flat on the cushion with sore arms and legs to add to his pains. Not to mention his hip was feeling bruised after that fall during the gunfight.

“Now we made it,” Charles said, sitting back on his heels. “How do you feel?”

“Awful,” Hosea griped, trying to shift to a more comfortable position. He sighed and tried to smile. “I’m alright, thank you.”

“It’s not any of my business,” Charles said, his voice soft and slow but with no hesitation, “But you’re not alright, Mr. Matthews.”

No…he wasn’t, was he? Not right in body and not so in mind either, if he dared admit it to himself. It had been a long time since he could honestly answer an inquiry with ‘I’m okay’, and mean it.

“You remind me of Bessie,” he said. “She never took my bullshit, never believed my lies, especially not the ones I wanted her to see through.”

He wasn’t sure why he was admitting this to Charles. A dampness crept up to his eyes and he was suddenly very glad for the dark of the night and the inability to look up at the man sitting by him.

“Who do you want to see through your lies now?”

Charles asked the question plainly, and Hosea hated how easy and difficult the reply could be.

_ Dutch _ .

The answer was too obvious and he knew it.

“Hell,” he swore with no venom. “I don’t know. No one. Myself.” He dragged an arm up to tuck under his head, ignoring the pain that accompanied the movement. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m old! It don’t matter much anymore.”

The last words came out with a boisterous quality that sounded as fake as it was, and he regretted them when they left his tongue. He shouldn’t talk about it, shouldn’t think about the wanting to  _ not _ think…the desire to just  _ rest _ , forever, and leave everything behind. How he longed to escape sometimes….

His mother had wanted that sort of escape too.

“You have a lot of people thinking you  _ do  _ matter,” Charles said from where he had yet to move. His voice had deepened, but with what emotion, Hosea couldn’t decipher. “And even if you don’t agree, they’re still counting on you to be there for them.”

“I suppose.” His mind went forward in time, trying to imagine what life would be like when he was gone. However, all he saw was a grey void of uncertainty, a future that held no promises for Abigail, Jack…for John or Arthur or even young Lenny. A shiver went down his spine and he turned his head to face the other way. Past Bill’s head and the dying fire, he could just make out the lean-to where Abigail slept in the shadows.

“Thank you, Charles. You’re a fine fellow.”

He felt the man shift position at last, respecting the subtle request to be alone, and soon an empty space was at his back. Charles didn’t return to his bedroll; Hosea heard him pick up a rifle and move away toward the path instead. Eyes drifting shut, he sighed, his ears filled with the sound of Bill’s snores and crickets in the bushes. He knew it would take him forever to fall asleep….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really think Hosea and Charles deserved some interaction in the game!  
> Also forgive me if this chapter seems rambling; I wanted to write about Hosea's mom and didn't know how to fit it in.


	3. The Shack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am once again throwing Thoughts into a stewpot and hoping they turn into a story. Anyway, here's chapter three!

“Mornin’!” 

Hosea looked up from where he was staring into the campfire’s flames to find Lenny standing over him, holding out a cup of coffee, and smiling. After gazing at the offering for a second too long, he accepted it, taking the warm cup in his hands. 

“Good morning, son. Thank you.” 

“No problem.” Lenny remained where he was, standing beside the log Hosea sat on, taking a sip of his own drink. “You seemed to be miles away.” 

“I was.” Lifting the cup to his lips, Hosea savored the hot liquid as it spilled over his tongue and down his throat. “Can’t even recall what I was thinking about.” 

“Cuz you ain’t had your coffee yet,” Lenny grinned, and Hosea couldn’t help it: he smiled and a chuckle escaped from deep in his chest.

“You’re probably right. Thank you for assisting me on that front, my boy.” He tilted the cup toward Lenny and the young man returned the gesture before they both took another long drink, quietly enjoying the peaceful morning atmosphere. Around them the rest of the camp was awake or waking, and somewhere behind Pearson’s wagon Susan was rousing the girls with a sharp tone. 

“Heard you, uh, had an adventure yesterday,” Lenny voiced. “Overheard you talkin’ to Arthur.” 

Hosea nodded, swirling the coffee in his cup. He’d told Arthur about Yán earlier that morning, leaving out the bit about hurting his back of course. “I’ve got a new one to tell ‘round the fire,” he admitted. “Want to hear it?” 

“I sure do!” Now Lenny sat down to the dirt, cross-legged and gazing eagerly up at Hosea in anticipation of the tale. In the span of those few seconds, any lingering hurt from the night before was banished, and he set down his cup, locking his hands around his knee and rocking a bit as he thought about the best way to start the story. 

“Well now, it was just supposed to be a simple hunting trip; catch a few rabbits and the like, but you know that fate likes to have her fun! I headed out on Silver and we’d barely made it past the tracks when suddenly…!” 

By the time he finished the story, a few others had drifted around the fire to listen, and he had to start over twice before getting all the way to the end. When he finished, ending on a scene where he headed away from the train station, Tilly leaned over from where she sat and patted his knee fondly. 

“You’re a regular white knight, Hosea!” she said, beaming, and he chuckled at the comparison. 

“Not quite! Just happened to be in the right place and the right time.” 

“You saved their lives, Mr. Matthews,” Reverend Swanson said from across the fire. “Not everyone would have stopped. Take pride in your good work.” 

Lenny lifted his cup. “Hear, hear!” 

With another shake of his head and a smile, Hosea lifted his cup and downed the last of the bitter liquid. He felt energized, whether from the coffee or the company he couldn’t tell, and turned to Lenny. 

“Say, would you want to come out with me?” 

“Ain’t got any better plans,” the young man replied. He chugged the rest of his coffee as Hosea got to his feet, then stood as well, tossing the grounds into the fire. “Where we goin’?” 

“Just a little reconnaissance, I think.” Hosea planted his hands on his lower back and did an experimental stretch, but there was no fire, only a dull ache, and that was something he’d been managing with for years now. “We’ll take a look around the countryside, get a layout of all these grand houses and old families.” 

“They, uh, they might not take you seriously, they see you riding around with me,” Lenny said as they walked toward the horses. “On account of my color.” 

“I don’t need them to take me seriously,” Hosea replied sternly. “But I do need a smart young man riding at my side, if he wants to do so.” 

The spring in Lenny’s step returned as they reached the horses and he nodded firmly. “He wants to!” 

“Good!” Grasping Silver Dollar’s saddle, Hosea pulled himself into it as Lenny mounted Maggie and gave the palomino mare a good scratch before guiding her around to follow Silver. “We’re heading out for a bit!” he called to no one in particular, and both Tilly and Swanson waved, while Kieran looked over from where he sat by the scout fire. Almost against his will, Hosea’s eyes drifted to Dutch’s tent and the silhouette of the man reading a book inside, backlit by the sunlight reflecting off the lake. On his tongue a bitter feeling settled, and it had nothing to do with the black coffee he had recently swallowed. 

Turning away from camp, his heels tapped Silver Dollar’s sides and the horse picked up speed, heading down the path toward the main road. The sun was bright and the wind soft, but there was the scent of rain in the air, warning of an oncoming storm. Hosea lifted his chin, but the trees were still too thick around them to observe the western sky and the clouds he knew would soon be building there. 

They were nearing the end of the path when Lenny piped up, “Looks like there’s someone ahead.” 

Sure enough, where the trail met the main road, a man sat upon a fallen log. He was chewing on a strip of jerky as his horse grazed nearby, and merely lifted his gaze when the two riders approached. 

“Howdy,” he said, as Hosea reined up Silver Dollar in front of where he sat. 

“What are you doing out here?” the older man asked, leaning over a bit to observe the scar-faced man. “Lazing about when there’s work to be done?” 

“Aw, Hosea,” John grumbled, tearing off another bite of jerky. “I been working my ass off. I got the money from them sheep, didn’t I?” 

That was true enough, though Hosea had to bite back a tease about going after a few sheep, of all things. He had no good reason to poke fun at the young man (though he never needed a reason to shower his sons with a little friendly embarrassment), and John had been doing his part for the gang since becoming well enough to work again. The train job he’d set up with Arthur had gone damn fine, if Hosea had to judge it. 

“Alright then,” he conceded, “But why are you sitting out here?” 

John shrugged. “I guess I don’t feel like going in.” He motioned at the two riders with the jerky. “Where you two headed?” 

“A bit of local reconnaissance,” Hosea replied. “You could join us, if you feel up to it.” 

John chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then shrugged. “Sure,” he said, and whistled for Old Boy, who lifted his head from the grass looking disgruntled. “Least I won’t have to go back to camp.” 

“What is it with you two?” Hosea demanded, after John had mounted up and they were riding again. 

The man furrowed his brow and hunched his shoulders at the question. “Me and who?” 

“You know who,” Hosea pressed, ignoring the obvious discomfort his words caused. “I remember when you and Abigail were as thick as thieves! And considering you _are_ thieves, that means you were pretty close. What happened?” 

“The _kid_ happened, Hosea,” John said, and the conman twisted in his saddle to direct a glare back at his son. 

“Don’t you dare put your own shortcomings on that boy,” Hosea warned. “No father blames his child for his own flaws.” 

“I don’t even know if I _am_ his daddy.” 

“That means nothing!” Hosea reined in Silver so fast that John and Lenny were level with him on the path before they could slow their own horses. The conman’s sharp gaze turned on John, who looked like a startled deer under the scrutiny of his mentor. “Whether he is your son or not, you have a responsibility to him! Did I dismiss you because my blood doesn’t run in your veins? Did Dutch? And what about Arthur- don't you consider him a brother?” 

John’s head had sunk lower and his shoulders rose higher with every accusation, until he looked so uncomfortable Hosea almost felt bad. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d chosen this moment to go after John; perhaps last night’s mood hadn’t waned as much as he thought. 

“Can we...not talk about this now?” John mumbled, and Hosea followed his embarrassed gaze to the other side of Silver, where Lenny was sitting patiently, eyes averted toward the landscape, away from the arguing duo. 

“Hmph,” Hosea grumbled, but dropped the subject. “Anyway, let’s focus on the task at hand.”

“Which is?” John asked, as Hosea urged Silver into a walk again.

“Money. Dutch thinks there’s gold in these...backwards tobacco fields, and I think he’s right. Old families are usually sitting on a pretty penny; it’s just the matter of getting them to stand up and reveal it.”

“Knowing you and Dutch, you’ll find a way,” Lenny grinned, and Hosea made a vague sweeping motion with his hand.

“If Dutch and I can’t con _these_ fools, I’d say we’ve sorely lost our touch!”

He and Dutch used to be able to talk a dog off a meat wagon, if they wished it. Some time had passed since they’d done a proper con, the kind Hosea loved most, where they planned for weeks on end, mapping out the area, getting into character for the parts they’d play, and then the thrill of something going entirely _off_ and having to use their wits to bring the plot to a financially and spiritually rewarding end. Though elaborate acting performances had always been Hosea’s forte, Dutch wasn’t so bad a charmer himself, and they had always been an exquisite team.

But it had been a few years since they’d done that sort of thing together, not since the fiasco in Montana, and certainly nothing similar since Blackwater and that whole mess.

“Where we going?”

Lenny’s voice pulled Hosea from his light daydreaming back to the dusty road. After a moment’s thought he decided, “Let’s take a ride East a bit, then circle back to Rhodes.”

Their excursion took a good part of the day, familiarizing themselves with the roads and paths, memorizing where traffic as heaviest, and taking note of how the cotton and tobacco fields sat in large, square blocks, sectioned off with fences and well-worn paths that men with shotguns walked up and down. It was early evening when they returned to Rhodes, entering from the West, past the station. As their horses ambled into town, Lenny cast a wary look about, asking,

“So…where is everyone?”

It was true, the streets were strangely empty, even for a small town such as this. The bank, the butcher shop, the church to their left...all stood as normally as any other day, but were completely unoccupied. Even the weed-filled park in front of the station was almost void of the usual vagrants and layabouts, and an unease fell to Hosea’s shoulders.

“Something ain’t right,” John said, his hand shifting nearer to his gun, but Hosea didn’t think he’d need it. The quiet of the town was unsettling, but not intimidating in the way an ambush would feel. There was a young woman playing with a child at the near end of the street, and Hosea signaled to John and Lenny to stay put as he dismounted and walked over to her.

“Ma’am,” he said, touching the brim of his hat. “May I have a word?”

“Suppose you’re wonderin’ where everyone is,” she replied curtly, as she straightened up and brushed red dust from her skirts. “Or are you here to watch?”

The hairs on the back of Hosea’s neck rose with the loud wail that suddenly sounded over the buildings, and the following shouts of a crowd. “Watch?”

“The hangin’,” the woman replied, and turned her attention back to her daughter.

“What is it?” Lenny asked, when Hosea returned to them with dark eyes and a furrowed brow. “There’s yellin’ from on the hill.”

“It’s a hanging,” the conman replied, the words a bitter taste in his mouth. Mounting Silver again, he tapped the horse into a walk. “Let’s go take a look, shall we?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?” John asked, but followed along nonetheless as Hosea rode up the path toward the growing crowd that gathered at the base of a grizzled old tree. From their vantage point on horseback, the three could see a short wooden platform with a hole cut in the middle, and above it, a looped rope hung from one of the tree branches. The crowd was talking excitedly, and Hosea couldn’t help but feel a bit sick. These people…they were here for entertainment, for a _show_ , not to see real justice done.

“We shouldn’t be here,” John muttered uneasily, eyeing the few deputies that stood at the bottom of the platform’s steps. One of the men nodded in Hosea’s direction and the conman returned the motion. “Don’t matter _how_ friendly you and Dutch are with the local law; hangin’s are bad business.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Lenny urged, an edge of fear in his voice, and, despite his curiosity, Hosea was about to agree when another wail sounded over the murmur of the crowd. At the noise, the entire group, including the three on horseback, turned to where Sheriff Leigh Gray was coming around building, pulling along behind him a young girl with handcuffs on her wrists. The child looked Hispanic, or Latina, to Hosea’s eyes, hardly over eleven years of age and covered in grime from her bare feet to her long messy hair. She was struggling, and doing a decent job of it as Gray labored to getting her to the tree. Deputy MacGregor ran forward from his place by the platform to assist, and together the two men got the girl kicking and screaming up the steps and on display for the crowd.

The people who had turned up to watch were cheering by this time, and Hosea’s stomach had twisted itself it several different sorts of knots watching the scene. Leaving his deputy to deal with the girl, Sheriff Gray stepped forward and waved his hands in the air to quiet the crowd.

“No speech!” someone shouted, “Juts get on with it!”

“Now, I _know_ why you all turned out today,” the sheriff said, shooting a disapproving look into the general direction of the voice, “But must I remind you that we are also a _respectable_ town?”

Gray’s dialogue faded to the background of Hosea’s mind as he studied the girl. She’d quieted now, as MacGregor put the rope around her neck, and the way her eyes darted over those assembled was all-too familiar; it was the look of someone searching for a friend, and finding none.

How many of Hosea’s own family had been in that same scenario before?

He looked over at John then, already knowing what he would see. The man’s lips were pressed in a fine line, his gaze locked on the girl, and Hosea didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know John was thinking of how he himself had faced a mirror image of this situation, right down to the bare feet and friendless crowd. And how there was no crime in the world that warranted the death of a child.

“You just going to sit there, boy?” Hosea asked, and John turned to him.

“You mean-?”

“We save them that need saving, as Dutch says,” Hosea replied, and Lenny leaned in a bit.

“He also said don’t cause no trouble in Rhodes.”

Hosea thumbed the hammer of his revolver, not yet drawing the gun from its holster. “Dutch says a lot of things, but don’t you forget that _someone_ cofounded that gang with him.” The hammer clicked back and he looked from one son to the other. “So you boys gonna help me?”

“Damn right I will,” John growled, and Lenny nodded.

“Yes, sir!”

“-now if we’re all clear on the fine points of law and the courts, which _of course_ have been used thoroughly and fairly in this murderous case, we’ll get on with it!” Sheriff Gray turned toward MacGregor, who appeared a little ill as he stood with his hand on the trapdoor lever. “Deputy, would you-?”

“I have a question, Sheriff!”

The sheriff looked around to find a revolver pointed at him over the crowd, and Hosea got immense satisfaction out of watching the color drain from the man’s face.

“What would you say to letting the girl go?” Hosea called, attracting the attention of everyone else now; heads turned to see what the interruption was, and several people gasped and ducked upon seeing the gun, but a few hands flew to their own weapons. On either side of Hosea, John and Lenny raised their rifles, and a number of the crowd fled toward town, but the three deputies and an uncomfortable number of townsfolk remained, looking as if they were just waiting for the opportunity to let bullets fly.

“Now see here!” Gray sputtered, lifting his hand sin the air, but Hosea simply shook his head.

“Tell your deputy to get that rope off her neck or I shoot, Sheriff! I’m sure I can manage to hit _some_ part of your body.”

Gray’s face twisted into a grimace, but it didn’t take more than a moment for him to look over his shoulder and give MacGregor a nod. As the deputy lifted the rope over the girl’s head, John slid off his horse and ran around to the stairs.

“C’mon, kid!” he urged, and she stared at him long enough that he put one foot on the steps and started motioning toward himself. “You want to stay here, be my guest! But come on!”

“Do somethin’, Sheriff!” said a man in the remaining crowd. “We just lettin’ ‘em free a criminal?”

“Criminal?” Hosea snapped. “She’s a child!”

The man sneered, hand settling on his gun, and Lenny’s rifle focused on him. “She may be scared of dyin’, but I ain’t….’

There was a breath of time in which the only sound was the girl’s feet shuffling toward John, and the only movement was her escape, and then came the slight twitch of the man’s muscles before he drew his gun. The bullet flew past Lenny, and the young man responded with a far more accurate shot, sending the man to the dusty ground, but that was all the others needed, and suddenly Hosea and Lenny were looking into a lot more pistol barrels than they had prepared for.

“Go!” Hosea shouted, heels digging into Silver Dollar’s sides, but the horse needed no extra urging to run directly into the crowd, sending men scattering before wild hooves. Lenny took aim at the men still standing and Hosea trained his revolver on Sheriff Gray, but there was little need; the man turned and ran at the sight of the conman barrel toward him, tripping over his own feet and falling with a painfully loud thump off the edge of the platform to the sunbaked earth.

At the first shot, the girl had dove down the steps, tumbling into John’s arms, and Hosea gestured at the man, yelling, “Take her and go!” before wheeling Silver around to take pot shots at several men trying to drag Lenny off his horse. As he twisted in the saddle, Hosea felt the muscles in his back spasm, protesting the movement, but he persisted, galloping toward Lenny. Leaning over, he ripped Maggie’s reins out of someone’s hands, sending a shot into the man’s back and another into his skull while the horses whinnied and snorted as their shoulders collided. Free of grasping hands, Lenny’s lifted his rifle again, but Hosea slapped his knee across the narrow space.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“Don’t need to tell me twice!” Lenny said, lowering the gun and following Hosea away from the crowd that was slowly but surely gathering itself again, and beginning to whistle for horses. There was no sign of John or Old Boy anywhere, and Hosea hoped they’d caused enough chaos for the young man to get away without being seen. With luck, any sort of pursuit would be focused on himself and Lenny instead, giving John a chance to get the girl to safety.

Hooves pounded into the grass as Silver and Maggie carried their riders over gently sloping hills and far too open landscape. A quick glance told Hosea that some of the men after them had gotten horses already, and then a low hill separated him from town and they were out of sight. For the time being, at least.

“Split up?” Lenny called from beside him, and Hosea eyed the oncoming trees, then nodded.

“At the forest! I’ll go east.”

Within moments they were guiding their respective steeds in opposite directions, and Hosea fled through trees that dispersed far too soon, replaced a road that ran beside a narrow, swampy river. Looking right and left down the road, his decision was cut short by the sound of shouts behind him in the forest, and the openness of the road suddenly seemed like a death sentence. Farther down a bridge offered itself as way across, but then a bullet whizzed past his shoulder, its source worryingly close behind him.

“Dammit!” he swore, urging Silver Dollar onward toward the river. The horse balked where land met water, and Hosea couldn’t blame him. The murky green water was thick and opaque, holding the potential to carry any sort of nasty creature, but the nastiest animal on the planet was trying to bury him with a bullet, so he tapped Silver with his heels, saying,

“Push, boy! On we go!”

With a noise that could only be described as a groan, Silver cantered forward into the river. The bank dropped off almost immediately, sending water flooding Hosea’s boots and soaking him up the chest. A sharp chill of cold shot through his body despite the warmth of the air, but that discomfort was far from his mind as he looked around to observe the closeness of his pursuers.

They’d only just cleared the trees, roughly seven of them total. It appeared that most the Rhodes townsfolk had followed _his_ trail rather than Lenny’s, which set Hosea’s heart at ease. He could handle some backwater fools…more likely than not they’d wouldn’t see the worth in following him into the swamps and he’d lose them easy.

All of a sudden Silver was pitching beneath him and Hosea turned back around so fast he gave himself whiplash, pulling on the reins as Silver went wild. The reason for the horse’s panic was loud in Hosea’s ears; the thundering rumble of a gator beneath the water reverberated through the air and the conman drew his gun, but there was nothing to shoot at, only murky water that sloshed over Hosea’s lap and Silver’s face as the horse frantically made for shore.

“Gator’s got ‘im!” came a shout from behind, and Hosea ducked his head as another bullet flew by.

“Then why bother shooting!” he yelled, forgetting about the gunshots a second later as a large maw filled with sharp teeth opened in the turbulent water near Silver’s chest. He drew back on the reins, Cattleman aimed true, his heartbeat shockingly calm as he pulled the trigger.

The shot wasn’t enough to kill, even point blank, but the gator’s jaw snapped shut without Silver’s leg between its teeth, affording Hosea enough time to regain control of the horse and get him moving toward the far bank instead of trying to circle around. Given a direction, Silver swam for it as fast as his legs would take him. Hosea half-hoped the gator would be scared off by the shot, but he knew a wounded animal threatened in it’s own territory wouldn’t give so easily. It was a small miracle that the folks shooting at him had stopped their attack, perhaps amused enough to watch him die to a large, angry reptile.

The thrum of a growl to the right had him aiming into the water again, and there was a sudden, harsh _tug_ on his pantleg. Every nerve pinpointed on the scrape of sharp teeth against his calf as he was yanked off Silver’s back into the water without even a chance to fill his lungs with air. With his head submerged, all he could see was the green of algae and hear the rush of blood in his ears. The gator hadn’t retained its grip on his trousers, however, and his hand was still wrapped securely around Silver’s reins. A few seconds later, mud was sloshing into his boots as Silver dragged him up the bank into the shallows of the shore that was their destination. Hosea released his hold on the reins, allowing the horse to spring ahead to safety, and he scrambled forward until somewhat-dry land was beneath his hands. A growl at his back had him spinning around, falling to his behind as the gator ran toward him out of the water, and he thanked whatever god or entity or luck that had kept his gun securely in his hands.

Two rapid-fire shots later and gator’s jaw landed hard on his ankles as its momentum drove it forward a few inches more before becoming still and lifeless, slumped at Hosea’s feet.

Heaving in deep breaths that had more to do with exertion than fear, Hosea pushed himself up and lifted his eyes to the opposite bank. The men on the other side were still sitting on their horses, eyes wide and mouths open is disbelief. Wearily, triumphantly, Hosea lifted his arms, spreading them out to either side to present his entire bloody, muddy, water-logged self.

“How’s that for a show?” he called across the water, with more than a pinch of victory added to his tone.

The men sat for a moment, looked at each other, then lifted their guns again, which sent Hosea ducking and running after Silver through the cypress trees as bullets buried themselves in the mud at his heels.

His horse was stomping anxiously on another path when Hosea finally reached him, breathing heavily and limping. He didn’t think the gator’s teeth had hit bone, but the gashes certainly didn’t feel nice to walk on. In any case, he didn’t have time to worry about it now; it was in his best interest to put more distance between him and the river, though he highly doubted your everyday townsfolk would be eager to go into the trouble of pursuing him through the swamps.

 _‘Hell, I’m not eager to escape into them and they’re my best option,’_ he thought as Silver started a slow walk deeper into the trees. Leaning down, he winced as his back complained about the movement, and he eased back up, forgoing a touch to his wounded leg. He’d look at it later…after finding a spot to hole up for the rest of the day.

The opportunity came in the form of a shack. It sat a little ways back from the road, set on a spit of land across a ditch of water that Hosea looked hard at for alligators before Silver walked through it. A snake hissed them, but that was all, and then they were on drier land again. The shack rose up almost ominously, revealing no light from behind boarded-up windows as the sunlight faded from the sky, already dim as stormclouds broiled overhead. Generally, Hosea wasn’t too enthusiastic about entering strange houses, but the ache in his leg and the soreness settling into his muscles was beginning to make him shiver despite his best efforts, not to mention the incoming weather. With any luck the homeowner was away, or friendly, and if not…well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t shot anyone before.

 _‘Though I’d prefer not to, if possible,’_ he mused, the thought accompanied by a small groan as he slid off Silver’s back. Leading the horse toward the structure, a jolt of adrenaline ran through him upon seeing a huge gator beneath the raised floor of the place, but a second look showed it was long dead and decaying...left to rot like some sort of trophy. Rounding two sides of the shack brought him to a porch, and he hitched Silver to a post and fed him a healthy dose of oatcakes before ascending the rickety steps.

There was no sound from inside when he put an ear to the door, but he double-checked he had six bullets in the chamber before rapping sharply on the wood. No response came, but the door shifted slightly under his touch, and he nudged it further open with his toe with no resistance.

The first thing he noticed was the painting.

It sat at the far end of the small, single room; a large canvas colored with yellows and blacks that vaguely resembled a man wearing a top hat. Simply looking at it sent chills down Hosea’s spine, though he couldn’t say why exactly. The next thing he became aware of were the numerous candles placed on every surface, large, waxy candles that dripped to the floor in white globs and cast an orange glow on everything.

The numerous paintings of animals and landscape made Hosea guess this was the lodgings of an artist, and the candles warned him they hadn’t been gone long... but the thick layer of dust on everything, even the paintbrushes and canvas of the man, was undisturbed. To his right stood a long table with the most artworks assembled on it, and a painting of a silver fox stared at him from where it sat beside a case of animal skulls, its eyes practically glittering in the candlelight.

All in all, the entire place made Hosea uneasy, and he even took a step back toward the door when sudden hoofbeats sounded outside on the road. He froze, ears following the noise as it came nearer. There was a number of horses by the sound of it, and his eyes blindly tracked the road’s path as they went by, slowing for a moment, then picking up again and moving on.

Perhaps it was wiser to stay.

If the homeowner did happen to return, perhaps he could pass himself off as a traveler who got into a scrape with a gator and needed a place to rest. That wasn’t exactly a lie, and he’d found that yarns with a dose of truth to them were always the easiest to spin.

Holstering his gun, he let himself relax a little. The windows were boarded up, which protected him from outside eyes, and there was only one door. There was no latch, and after a moment’s thought, he dragged a moth-eaten, green satin chair in front of the entryway; at least he’d hear if someone tried to enter.

As he got the furniture into position, his calf began to ache again, and he bent down to touch the tear in his pants. The blood was drying, no longer running freely down his leg, which was a good sign, but it continued to hurt like hell when he put weight on it. Straightening once more, he caught sight of himself in a full-length mirror, and paused.

“Well don’t you look awful, you son of a bitch,” he murmured, eyeing his mud-covered clothes and ripped trousers. He had never been particularly vain, but it would take a blind man not to notice the shadows under his eyes and the lines creasing into his weathered face. His hands ran absentmindedly though his hair, blessedly still all there, but a whole lot grayer. “Why haven’t you retired yet?”

Maybe he should have retired years ago…or died. He couldn’t fathom the reason he was still alive out here…running from gunmen and fighting alligators…hiding in a house that wasn’t his. This sort of life of his had gone on too long now. If he’d been smart, he would never have left that cabin, never would have dragged Bessie back into the life of an outlaw, a criminal.

But the boys had missed him.

_‘And you missed the boys. And Dutch.’_

He could still recall the words Dutch had spoken to him when he and Bessie returned, after the hugs and the welcomes, after pitching their tent again and settling in. Dutch had found him alone and held his face with warm hands, gentle hands that cupped his jaw and caressed his cheeks…hands that held him close as Dutch had kissed him.

“I’ll never do that again,” the outlaw had said. “If you never leave me.”

“I won’t,” Hosea had replied, watching as the pieces of Dutch’s heart reassembled before him in the dim lamplight. “We’re here to stay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

It had been an easy thing to say; he had missed Dutch so much. But sometimes he wondered….

Hosea slowly moved his palms from where they’d come to rest on his cheeks as his calf twinged in pain, and he sat down to the red couch, thankfully positioned so he couldn’t catch sight of himself in the mirror again. Carefully he eased his boot off and began tearing away the cloth of his pants to reveal the wound.

He had never regretted going back home, back to Dutch, not while Bessie was alive. It was only after her death that he began to wonder if what he’d come back to was really home. Arthur, John and Tilly always reminded him that it was, and Dutch too, though to say their relationship was what it used to be was a lie even Hosea wouldn’t have been able to sell.

The cuts on his leg weren’t deep, and the skin wasn’t torn as bad as it could have been. He’d remembered to bring in his satchel, which was still soaked through, but the leather bag of herbs inside was dry enough. Sorting out a little pile of goldenrod, he gritted his teeth in preparation of lying the plant on the open wound.

But lately…he felt as if he couldn’t even speak to Dutch without some strife coming between them, and the moments of joy were fleeting and transparent. Dutch cared for him, or at least Hosea assumed as much by the way the outlaw gripped his hand and stared into his eyes that late night at Sean’s return party. He’d say the man’s empathy these days was shallow, but Dutch had never been shallow in his entire life so why start now? It was as if the feelings Hosea used to associate with him, the kindness, the hope, the pure yearning for a life lived free, were being buried in a grave under layers of anger and desperation that were being tossed on top of the Dutch he knew…one shovelful at a time.

“Miserable bastard,” he muttered, wrapping the torn hem of his trousers around his calf to hold the goldenrod in place. “Who’s to say he changed at all? Maybe you’re just paranoid in your old age.”

Letting out a sigh, he sank back to the hard cushions of the couch, allowing his head to tip back. Rain had begun to beat upon the roof overhead. The ceiling was uninteresting, but the walls were papered with sheets of newspapers…all old and yellowed with age. It wasn’t much warmer in the room than outside, but Hosea felt his eyes unfocusing anyway, lulled by the flickering of candle, and he forced his eyelids open again.

His wandering gaze caught sight of words scratched in the plaster of the wall above the portrait: THE WATER RUNS BLACK WITH VENOM.

 _‘Blackwater,_ ’ he thought idly, and a shiver that he attributed to the painful throb of his leg ran through him. That’s where this whole mess had began, why they had been driven Eastward instead of travelling to the promising lands of the West and the hope of a ranch.

“It began a lot longer ago than that,” said a voice that sounded nothing like his own, and Hosea’s head snapped forward, but the room was still empty save for soft yellow light…soft, flickering oranges and reds that were so warm compared to the cold of the mountains they’d so recently traversed. The light was jumpy, warping the shadows, and if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the portrait was looking at him with its smudged, shaded eyes.

Another shiver wracked his body as his head fell back again, and the small chandelier overhead seemed to sway back and forth, the little flames of the candles leaving trails of white in his vision. The rest of candles began to go out one by one, bringing the shadows nearer, and the door hinges creaked.

Across the room, the silver fox’s eyes blinked slow and closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would never hurt a horse by having it's leg chomped by a gator, ESPECIALLY NOT SILVER.  
> Also, Yes he Did That after experiencing terrible back pain. Just accept it.


	4. Elysian Pool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I would like to thank Eddy Arnold (via @platonicharmonics ) for being the reason I finished this chapter tonight. Particularly his song 'I'm Gonna Be Home With You'.

Hosea woke to the rumble of an alligator’s growl.

The sound came from somewhere nearby and slightly below him, and his first instinct was to reach for his gun, but a touch to his hip revealed the weapon wasn’t there. That realization brought him fully to consciousness and he sprang forward to a sitting position- or at least, he tried too before his back protested the movement, forcing him to fall back to the couch with an accompanying groan.

“You had quite the day yesterday.”

The voice had Hosea grabbing for his missing revolver again, and he lurched forward, ignoring the invisible claws raking painfully through his muscles. White flickered in the corners of his vision, but he blinked it away, focusing on the second occupant of the room, who was sitting on the stool before the unfinished portrait.

This new inhabitant was a man of medium build, and somewhat tall, his height accented by the top hat sitting on his dark, slicked back hair. An equally tended moustache adorned the strange man’s face, and he wore a suit that was too fine for the muddy swamps of Lemoyne.

Hosea tucked one hand to his back, pressing against sore muscles while his eyes darted around the room in search of his belt. He found it sitting on nightstand at the end of the couch, guns intact in their holsters. Last night was a bit fuzzy...he couldn’t quite remember falling asleep, but he was positive he hadn’t- wouldn’t have -removed his gun belt.

“Do I know you?” he asked, returning his gaze to the man.

“Should you?” The man didn’t look at him. He had a paintbrush in his hand and was creating delicate strokes of black over the canvas. The eyes of the portrait were much clearer now, and a twinge of unease went through Hosea as realized just how long the strange man must have been working while he slept, oblivious to the company.

“I’ve met a lot of people,” Hosea replied carefully, “And I don’t recall your face.”

The black paintbrush switched to brown, and the rough outline of a nose began to take shape on the canvas. Hosea’s eyes went to his guns again. The man didn’t appear armed, but Hosea would feel safer with a weapon his hand nonetheless.

“I apologize for the intrusion,” he said as he tested putting a little weight on his leg. It didn’t feel weak, only sore, and he was positive it would hold him, but the matter of his back was another thing entirely. “Got into a scrape with a gator.”

The man didn’t reply, only furthering Hosea’s sense of unease. With a carefully drawn in breath, he steeled himself against the inevitable pain and pushed himself quickly to his feet. As usual, he underestimated just what level of hurt his body could handle, and the white that had before only crept to the corners of his eyes now filled his entire vision as fire burned its way up and down his back, screeching in protest against the quick movement.

Upon regaining his sight and senses he found himself still upright, but there was pressure at the back of his neck and around his wrist; the strange man’s hands, he realized a moment later as he lifted his gaze to deep brown eyes…eyes that were so dark they seemed almost black, and held no emotion that Hosea could read. He flinched away from the touch and his hand finally settled on the leather of his belt, but he didn’t draw a gun…simply leaned on the nightstand as small spasms wrecked through his body.

“You grow wearier with every passing day,” the strange man said, thankfully keeping his distance as Hosea panted through the pain.

“That’s what- happens when you’re -old,” he bit out. “Thanks for mentioning it.”

“Not your body.” The man sank back down to the stool and took the discarded paintbrush in his hand. “Your soul.”

Hosea frowned his way past the aches of his muscles to stare at the man, but the fellow had returned to the portrait. Thinking that he’d had quite enough of this shack and the man that inhabited it, he picked up his gun belt and secured it around his waist. The weight of it was comforting, familiar in the unfamiliar, and he slowly straightened up, standing under his own power again.

“Weary soul or not, you’ve been kind to lend me your sofa,” he said, inching toward the door, hand on his revolver in case the man should object to his leaving. However, there was no change in the painter’s movement, only the same steady strokes of the brush, and Hosea’s fingers wrapped around the door handle. “Good day, sir.”

“Yán was a single drop of water,” the strange man said, not turning from the portrait. “The girl in Rhodes; a drop more. Accumulate enough and soon you will have a river.”

Hosea froze with one foot out the door, but all his attention was pinpointed on the man inside. “Excuse me?”

The strange man turned then, so fast that Hosea jumped and drew his revolver. The barrel was aimed directly at the man’s head, but he did not flinch, not so much as a twitch of his moustache, and despite the gun in his hand Hosea felt naked, stripped of all power.

“The crossroads of fate are not prewritten,” the strange man said, his words rumbling through Hosea’s skull until they were all the conman could hear beside the beating of his own heart. He didn’t realize the man had moved across the room until they were almost nose to nose, and the revolver was aimed at the floor. “The floodwaters come at your command, Mr. Matthews.” A quirk of lips that could almost be a smile twitched under the strange man’s moustache. “But you already know that.”

Hosea choked on any words he may have said, head suddenly spinning, and all at once he was staring at the closed door of the shack. Ramming his shoulder against it, he found it opened as easily as the night before, but upon bursting back in, he found the room empty.

No candles.

No painting.

No strange man.

“What the hell,” he muttered, his heartbeat loud and uncomfortable in his ears as he looked about the room for clues, but it was empty of everything, right down to the last stray drop of wax. Outside, the swamps looked the same as the night before, albeit brighter in the morning light. Silver Dollar stood calmy beside the porch, tail swishing away bothersome flies, and only peered curiously at Hosea as the conman came down the steps, staggering a bit as his leg made it’s pain known again.

“Fucking bastard,” he muttered, the insult coming from a place of fear rather than anger. Many people knew his name, sure, it came with having his face papered on walls from California to Missouri and everywhere in between, but his personal life, the act of saving Yán? The knowledge of that felt like an invasion. What more did the strange man know? And who had he told, if anyone?

“Better let Dutch know,” he said, pulling himself into the saddle and coaxing Silver back across the water to the road. “Won’t do to have more folk after us….”

There was nothing but bad blood between them and O’Driscolls, Pinkertons, and no doubt the entire town of Rhodes by now. They’d done quite the job making enemies, hadn’t they? Hosea was tired just thinking about it all. All he wanted to was to be back at camp, surrounded by family and shaking the sticky feeling of alarm from his boots.

“Come on, friend,” he said, leaning down to feed Silver Dollar an oatcake he fished form a saddlebag. “Let’s get on home.”

-

The afternoon sun was high in the sky when Hosea returned to Clemens Point. He found the camp in a state of disarray and disassembling, with Susan shouting orders and everyone else running about like chickens with their heads cut off. Lenny stood at the end of the path, his face brightening upon seeing Hosea ride up on Silver. The young man ran over as Hosea brought the horse up to a hitching post and slid off.

“Hosea! We was worried about you! Dutch was w-.”

“Hosea!”

The old man turned as Arthur came over at a half-run. The man’s face was shadowed with some dark emotion, but it didn’t seem to be directed at Hosea, for his tone was relieved when he said, “’Bout time you got home, old man. We was starting to think we’d have to leave without you.”

Hosea waved away the comment and the concerned looks Lenny was giving his bandaged leg. “Where’s the girl? Did John get her back safely?”

“She’s fine,” Arthur said, “Javier talked to her, says she’s from Texas. Brought over East by some workers.” But despite his explanation, his mind seemed miles away on another topic he was only just keeping under the surface. “Hey, kid, shouldn’t you be watching the path?”

Lenny nodded, seemingly taking no insult from the sharp tone, and Hosea raised an eyebrow at Arthur as the teen hurried back toward his guard post. He’d seen Arthur get angry plenty of times, but not so recently. And yet the boy seemed fairly bristling with rage where he stood before him.

“Micah’s been talking a lot of shit about you,” Arthur said in a low tone. “Saying it’s your fault we gotta move again.”

“He’s not _wrong_ ,” Hosea replied, and lifted his gaze past Arthur’s shoulder as the bustle of the camp. The wagons were half-packed, the tents collapsed and laid in neat piles to be loaded. Tilly caught his eye and smiled as she ran by with Kieran, the two of them carrying folding chairs toward the girl’s wagon as Susan waved at them to hurry up. He caught sight of Abigail stacking plates into a crate, and helping her was the Hispanic girl, looking nervous but not so scared as she had on the hangman’s platform. Even Uncle was helping, to some degree, keeping Cain out of the way while the rest of camp disassembled their home with a practiced ease. “We can’t stay here after disrupting a hanging,” Hosea sighed. “Even if it deserved to be interrupted.”

“He ain’t talking about it quite so nicely as that,” Arthur growled.

“Hosea!”

Both men turned as Dutch stalked up to where they stood, Micah following behind like he was attached to the outlaw by a lead. Dutch stopped just in front of Hosea, and Arthur drifted back a step to stand at the older man’s shoulder as Micah did the same for Dutch.

“Glad you decided to join us at last,” Dutch said, his tone biting cold in the warm air. “Where have you _been_?”

“Weren’t sure you were going to rejoin us,” Micah said, “Not after all the ruckus you caused in town.”

Hosea felt Arthur tense beside him, but tried to keep his own temper down. After all, he wasn’t exactly forgiving to those who put the gang in potential danger…why shouldn’t he bear the brunt of their irritation the same way?

But his recklessness had been for worthy cause, or so he believed, and that was what he needed to convince the man before him of, the outlaw who at one time would have clapped him on the back for what he’d done and, ‘I’m _proud_ of you, Hosea!’ but was now staring at him with crossed arms and a critical gaze that looked harder to break through than a brick wall.

“Can I talk to you?” Hosea asked, shifting his weight a little so his injured leg could rest. “Alone?”

“Anything you have to say can be said in present company,” Dutch replied.

“I’ll go help Grimshaw,” Arthur said quickly, but Dutch’s eyes flicked to him.

“No. I’m sure Hosea’s excuses aren’t something that has to be kept secret. He can tell his own son exactly _why_ we’re forced to pack up and leave with our tails tucked between our legs like dogs?”

Hosea’s teeth ground together at the accusation, but- _he’s right, it’s my fault_ – he tried not to let frustration leak into his tone. “I simply thought that the life of the girl warranted causing some trouble.”

“And what about the money?” Dutch retorted, gesturing toward the general direction Rhodes. “We had a solid plan, Hosea, one that made us money as long as we _laid low_.”

“We don’t even know if there _is_ money!” Hosea cried, catching the attention of those nearest. “And we were nowhere near getting it anyway. That _child_ was far nearer to death.”

Dutch sighed, directing his words at Arthur. “You see what I mean, son? The old lady don’t even trust my judgement anymore.”

Over Dutch’s shoulder, Micah shook his head sorrowfully, but a wicked smile was spreading across his face even as Arthur paled and seemed to shrink back, caught between his two fathers. Some of the camp was watching them now, and Hosea suddenly wanted to crawl under a rock. He opened his mouth, but Micah beat him to it.

“Aw, come on, Dutch,” he drawled, putting a hand on the outlaw’s shoulder. “We all make mistakes. Sometimes…sometimes even our oldest friends let us down, but you can’t hold it against ol’ Hosea here; one little girl or all that gold? It was a decision that had to be made. Can’t blame him for making it without you.”

“I did what had to be done,” Hosea said, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt. All of a sudden he felt like Dutch had stepped away from him, though the man hadn’t moved an inch. “Just doing what we’ve always done; saving folks and bringing them home when they ain’t got nowhere else to go. Sorry it ain’t what you wanted, sorry it’s not what you think we should be doing, but it’s what I think is _right_.”

Halfway through he could tell Dutch was no longer listening, though he may hear the words that were being spoken at him, there was no absorption of them; they simply collided with the distant look in the outlaw’s eyes and fell to the mud at his feet. Yet he kept speaking.

When he finished, Dutch’s gaze met his flatly. “Of course, Hosea,” he said, tone like melting honey, too thick and sweet to follow so closely behind the anger he’d so recently expressed. “Money’s not everything…we’ll just keep saving our pennies for that ranch.”

The rip in Hosea’s heart widened, tearing painfully through the flesh of his emotions. “Dutch….”

“Go clean yourself up,” the outlaw continued, not letting him speak. He turned back into camp and those listening in sprang back to their work as the younger half of their leadership moved back toward the wagons. “You’re a mess.”

Micah didn’t speak another word, just touched the edge of his hat toward Hosea and Arthur before following Dutch. At Hosea’s side, Arthur quietly asked, “’Sea?”

“There’s a lot to be done before we move,” Hosea replied. He felt stiff, like every muscle was straining to keep him upright. The pain in his leg didn’t bother him anymore…a trifling thing compared to the wounds inflicted on his heart, but he forced a smile. “He’s right: I need a bath! I’ll join you before everyone’s ready to go.”

Arthur went, but his steps were slow and hesitant as he moved away from the old man to take a heavy crate that Strauss was struggling with. It was for an achingly long moment that Hosea stood where he had been left before dragging himself away from camp toward the lake. Where the bank was rocky, instead of muddy, he sank down to a large stone and tugged his boots off, but didn’t rise to his feet. 

He felt very heavy, and everything in his head was too loud, pinning him to his seat like a physical weight. For so many years of his life he had tried to _do good_ , and _be good_ …to be the good man Dutch saw in him, rather than the cruel one the world had tried to shape him into. Yet now his efforts to be kind was forcing them to move, again, and his actions had only put their dreams of a happy ending even further in the future.

A water bug skittered across the surface of the lake where small waves lapped gently at the shore, and Hosea’s eyes followed its erratic path as it left ripples in its wake.

“Every plant and animal has a purpose,” he mother had said about nature, and sometimes Hosea wondered if the same applied to humans. Bugs, birds, foxes and fish, they never seemed so lost as the human race, nor so confused about their place in the world, and went about their business with an air of understanding and purpose that Hosea found himself searching for near every day.

The water bug continued its mission a little further from shore, and between one breath and the next, Hosea watched it vanish in the mouth of a hungry bluegill that rose to the surface only long enough to catch dinner. The fish’s movement caused small waves brush against the pebbles of the shore, turning light gray stone dark with wetness.

_‘The floodwaters come at your command, Mr. Matthews.’_

He was all too aware of what sort of storms could be unleashed upon the gang, on his family, but picking the one that would cause the least damage was less clear. He wished he was a fish…able to escape to the cool dark water and forget about the responsibility crushing his shoulders.

But with his luck, he’d probably only bite down on the hook of Dutch’s fishing line again. Not once in the time he’d known the outlaw had he been able to swim far, though he’d tried a time or two. Perhaps pulling away wasn’t the answer, perhaps he needed to _push_ instead. He wasn’t quite sure what that meant, though he suspected he’d already begun to push at Dutch more than he had for a long while, building up like water trapped behind a dam.

One drop at a time.

-

Elysian Pool was the name of their latest campsite. The pond sat along the Kamassa River that ran all the way through Roanoke Ridge down to the Lanhechee, south of Saint Denis. Arthur had said that Micah had chosen the spot, which had Hosea questioning it almost immediately, but he had to give the man a little credit; it certainly was out of the way, set back in a rocky landscape beside the small falls that dropped into the pool. The nearest village was the mining town of Annesburg, though the small community of Butcher Creek was only a short ride downstream. Charles, who said he’d been in the area before, assured them that the folk of Butcher Creek were not the sort to go talking to anyone, and would probably be happy to trade skins or food if needed. All in all, it wasn’t a terrible location, though the wildness of the country had Hosea worrying for reasons other than the law.

Elysian Pool itself was a corrupted source of water, tainted by the yellowish grime that poured out from behind the falls. An exploration by Lenny and Sean told them that there was a maze of tunnels that wound their way back into the earth; an old mining operation by the sound of it, with a back exit. Upon learning this, Hosea carefully filed the knowledge away in the back of his brain.

It had taken them a few days to reach the spot, but now they were setting up camp on a hill amongst some trees. They’d taken a meandering path to throw off Pinkertons, O’Driscolls, and the local Rhodes law, not to mention the strange man, who unsettled Hosea more than the former three combined. Dutch hadn’t seemed overly concerned, however, saying the man was probably some sort of government agent who was keeping tabs on them the same way the Pinkertons were.

“Maybe he _is_ a Pinkerton,” he’d said when Hosea told him. “But he won’t be able to trail us, just like all the others won’t. We’ll leave them chasing each other in Lemoyne and we’ll be free.”

Hosea wasn’t so sure of that and he said so, but they did their best to cover their tracks and there really was nothing more to be done about it. They were in the state of New Hanover again, and far from any of the towns they’d caused trouble in.

As everyone set up and settled in, Hosea walked down the edge of the pool only to find Jack poking a dead fish with a stick. Hurrying forward, the conman hooked his hands under the boy’s arms, lifting him up and away from the water before he could touch it.

“Stay away from the pool, Jack,” he warned, setting the boy down on the damp soil a few feet back. “No swimming here, I’m afraid.”

“Why not?” Jack looked curiously at the water, which had a sick looking sheen over the surface of it. “I went swimming at the other camp.”

“I know.” Hosea ran his fingers through Jack’s light brown hair, eyeing the dead fish. Its body was bloated and marked with dark, unnatural spots. He wasn’t sure what sort of mineral affected wildlife like that, and he didn’t want to find out if it did the same for humans. “But this water is dirty. So you can’t drink it or touch it, okay? Don’t want you getting sick now.”

“Okay,” Jack sighed. “I won’t. And I won’t let Cain go swimming either, even if he really wants to.”

Hosea smiled at that; the boy had some sense in him. “Good idea. Now….” He crouched down so he was level with Jack’s eyes and tugged the boy’s coat a little closer around him. The air was sharper up hear, not so cold as the Grizzlies, of course, but with a chill that hadn’t been present in Clemens Point’s soupy warmth. “Can you do something for me?”

Jack nodded, and Hosea looked over toward camp. “Would you go play with Ana?”

Jack followed Hosea’s gaze to where the young girl was sitting on a crate with her back bowed, picking at the moss that grew on the stones at her feet. She’d been cleaned up by Abigail and dressed into some of Jack’s clothes, which were a bit short in the arms and legs, but the only articles of clothing that weren’t ridiculously large on her small frame. Though it had been a few days, she was still quiet, only speaking to Javier in Spanish sometimes, though the man said she had a good grasp on English.

“She doesn’t want to play,” Jack said, and Hosea cast him a stern look.

“We need to make her feel welcome here, and though there’s a few years between you, you’re the closest in age to her. Wouldn’t you like to have a friend?”

Jack’s eyes, having turned back to Hosea, went to Ana again. “Yes….”

As they spoke, Dutch had appeared from behind the tents that were quickly being erected, heading toward where Hosea and Jack. He paused for a moment by Ana, saying something to her that Hosea couldn’t hear, but a small smile flashed across the girl’s face and Hosea’s heart warmed a fraction. He straightened up, grimacing a bit as his knees cracked, and patted Jack on the head as Dutch continued on toward them.

“Why you introduce Ana to Cain?” he said, recalling the way the girl’s eyes sparkled when she looked at the dog, and Jack expression immediately brightened.

“Okay! She’ll love him!”

“I’m sure she will,” Hosea said, giving him an encouraging push. “Go on now.”

The boy ran off, saying, “Hi, Uncle Dutch!” as he passed the outlaw on his way toward Ana. Dutch gave a salute in return, a look of fondness softening his eyes as he reached Hosea’s side. They both watched the youngest member of the van der Linde gang hesitantly approach Ana and say something to her. Within a moment he was leading her by the hand further into camp, calling Cain’s name, and Hosea let out a sigh.

“Good,” he murmured, the word of relief slipping out almost unintentionally, and Dutch tilted his head.

“Good?”

“I thought she’d be too shy to go with him.” Hosea placed his hands on his lower back and twisted, trying to get a crack out of it with no luck. “She hasn’t had a chance to get to know us yet.”

“She will,” Dutch said, his tone confidant. “Everyone else is eager to get to know her.”

“Not everyone,” Hosea winced. “Speaking of which…where’s Micah? Seems he never leaves your side these days.”

“Give the man a chance, Hosea,” Dutch said, and Hosea could hear the frown in his tone. “I know you disapprove of his…wildness, but we’ve all been a bit wild, even you.”

Hosea couldn’t deny that. Though he was years past it, he still sometimes shivered at the idea of who he could have been without Dutch, without Arthur and John, without Bessie…all guiding hands at his shoulder and on his heart. His forgiveness of a wild nature, however, did not extend to a man who was racist and sexist with no intention of changing his ways. If Dutch saw something in Micah…well, Dutch was good at seeing thing in others, Hosea himself was proof of that, but until he was convinced of the man’s ‘good heart underneath’ Hosea wouldn’t forgive so easily.

But that wasn’t an argument he wanted to have now, not when he already felt as if he was walking on eggshells around Dutch recently.

“I know,” was all he said, digging his fingers into the muscles of his back again. It hurt damn near constantly since his fall while hunting, more than usual, and the physical movement he’d been doing lately didn’t help any. “I’m just tired of recklessness, I guess.” A strained chuckle left his lips at the hypocrisy of his words and he added, “Though I seem to be the trouble-maker these days, don’t I?”

“Would you be Hosea Matthews if you _weren’t_ causing problems for me?” Dutch asked. He tapped the conman on the shoulder, gently compelling him to turn around so his back was to the outlaw. Hosea leaned his back against Dutch broad, sturdy chest, hugging himself so Dutch could reach around to grasp his elbows with strong fingers. The outlaw leaned back and Hosea winced as his feet lifted from the ground. “Relax, old girl,” Dutch said, pressing his nose against the older man’s neck, “Breath out.”

Hosea did as asked, releasing a deep exhalation as Dutch bent both of them backwards. He didn’t have to bend much before a series of loud cracks and pops burst down Hosea’s spine.

“Sounds like you needed that,” Dutch huffed, dropping Hosea back down to the ground. “That must have been at least ten.”

“Feels better already,” the conman groaned, appreciating the relief in his upper back. It would he short-lived, he knew, a temporary respite, but it was better than nothing. He made to step forward, but Dutch curved his arms around him, strong arms that were as sturdy as the rest of him and as thick as Hosea was thin. Hosea knew he could get away with the smallest pull, but he didn’t, relishing a second luxury in being held. The chin tucked against his shoulder was close enough so he could lean his cheek against the coarse stubble on Dutch’s face and feel the man’s breath on his neck.

“Anyone could walk down here, you know,” he said, eyes lazily drifting half-closed even as his shoulders remained tense.

“I’m just cracking your back, old girl,” Dutch rumbled, his voice reverberating through Hosea’s entire body. “Haven’t you been doing your stretches? You’re so tense.”

The question came as a joke, but Hosea treated it as an invitation.

“Fell, a couple days ago,” he said roughly. “When I was hunting. Could barely walk.”

Dutch shifted against him, his grip tightening. “Who was with you?”

“No one,” Hosea admitted. “Wouldn’t have made it back ‘til morning if Silver wasn’t such a clever horse.”

Dutch leaned back at that, turning Hosea in his arms so he could look him in the face. “Why didn’t you say anything to me?”

 _‘Because you weren’t listening,’_ Hosea wanted to say, but he just shrugged. “Didn’t seem important.”

Dutch let out a sigh that sounded like disappointment as he pulled away, and Hosea suddenly felt cold, but then the man’s hands were taking his, enveloping thin fingers in large palms. He looked up and saw worry in Dutch’s deep brown eyes where he thought he’d find resentment.

“Mr. Matthews,” Dutch said, “You are very good at looking after other people, but terrible at taking care of yourself.” He squeezed the hands he held and shook his head. “When will you stop causing trouble?”

“Only when you do,” Hosea replied, and their eyes met again, perhaps understanding each other a bit too well, for the outlaw looked away first. “Dutch…I’m sorry about the money in Rhodes. I know it was a good chance for us to finally make some money and get out of this life. I just- when I saw that girl, and I thought of John….”

Dutch looked away toward camp, where lamps and fires were being lit to chase away the oncoming dark of twilight. “We can’t seem to stop adding to our family, can we?” He paused a moment, then said, “You know…I was thinking I might teach her to read. Lenny said he’d help with the homework. What do you think?”

Hosea smiled. It was the closest thing he was going to get to an apology, and it was enough for him. “Professor van der Linde is back in the classroom,” he said, and Dutch let out an exaggerated groan.

“Not the teasing again, Hosea, please. I went through enough of it when Arthur and John were learning.” A little chuckle rippled through him. “Unless you want me to bring up our _private sessions_.”

“No, _sir_ ,” Hosea grinned, finding joy in the flush that rose to Dutch’s cheek, noticeable even in the low light. The outlaw took a step closer, closing the inches between them, and his hand came up, then hesitated, fingertips just brushing the conman’s jawline.

“Hosea….”

A lump grew in Hosea’s throat at the softness of the word. The way Dutch’s eyes flickered down to his lips was too familiar, and his tongue darted out to wet them self-consciously. The outlaw was practically trembling as he held himself back, keeping the touches he yearned for in check unless Hosea allowed otherwise. But despite the intensity of the silent question, the conman didn’t say yes with his words or his body.

“Doesn’t look like you’re taking care of my back anymore,” he said gently, wrapping his fingers around Dutch’s wrist and lowering the hand that rested by his face. “We’d better make sure Jack hasn’t wandered off too far with Ana.”

“Sure,” Dutch said, his voice tight, “Sure,” but he didn’t move back, didn’t release the hand he still held. “You’re always on my side, right, Hosea?”

The conman bit down on his lower lip. No matter how many times he was asked this question, or some variant of it, it still hurt. “I’ll be at your side until the day I die, Dutch,” he said. “I wouldn’t know where else to go.”

He pulled back, hand slipping his free of Dutch’s and turned away from the outlaw, walking slowly back toward camp. As he went, he listened for the sound of footsteps following him, but he heard nothing except for the chirp of frogs, the soft voices of those in camp, and the lonely call of a single owl in the trees.


	5. Murfree Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aka The Chapter Neve Had a Ton of Fun Writing.
> 
> Warnings for Violence, Blood, and a Brief Implication of Substance Abuse.
> 
> Sorry if the formatting is a bit wonky- posting from my phone!

At first Hosea thought the screams were a part of his dream.

Then Tilly was shaking his arm, asking, “Did you hear that?” in a panicked whisper and he woke fully. It was still night, the moon hidden behind clouds so only that which was touched by firelight became visible. Around him, the others were waking, brought to consciousness by the shrill noise that had now died in the air, leaving only the murmuring of the others and the crackle of flames.

Hosea had fallen asleep arms crossed, seated against a tree trunk, and his joints cracked as Tilly hauled him to his feet. Ignoring the stiffness of his limbs, he moved forward to the center of camp without a word, ears straining for sound even as his eyes darted around the tents and bedrolls to make sure everyone was accounted for. The terrain had forced them into a sort of wagon line, with two wagons at each end and the tents in between where the land sloped up on either side. Again, Hosea criticized the spot, but at least he could see where everyone was. The girls, the boys, Abigail and Jack, John was peering out of his tent, Arthur already standing with his repeater in hand, and Dutch had emerged as well, his eyes doing the same headcount as Hosea’s were. Three were missing- Lenny, Bill, and Micah; the first two on guard and the latter still off on his job-hunting mission from the day before.

“What was that?” Mary-Beth asked, inching closer to Karen and grabbing her arm. “Sounded like someone dyin’!”

“Went in a bloody awful way by the sound of it,” Sean retorted, and Hosea spread his hands out in a motion for silence. Everyone fell quiet as the bushes rustled, and several guns were lifted as Bill came hurrying into the firelight.

“Whoa!” he hissed, “It’s just me!”

“There’s someone out there.” Lenny came creeping up from the opposite way and pointed back toward the pool. “On the other side of the pond, there’s lamps.”

Dutch drew his guns, eyes trained out into the dark for a moment before facing the camp again. “All you boys check the woods,” he ordered, motioning between the gunmen of the group. “Take ‘em out  _ quietly _ . The rest of you stay close and circle up.”

Arthur, John, Bill, Javier, Sean, Sadie and Charles were quick to unholster their guns or pick up their rifles before spreading out into the trees. Hosea’s hand clamped down on Dutch's arm, stopping him in his tracks before he could move away into the dark as the others were doing.

“What do you think it is?” he demanded, “Who’s out there?”

“Murfrees,” Charles said in a low tone, pausing as he walked by them. At his side, Arthur also stopped, listening. “They’re wild men. Killers, rapists…they don’t care about anything or anyone, and they’ll do a lot to keep anyone who isn’t one of them off their land. I’m guessing we invaded their hills.”

“Wonderful!” Hosea hissed, fingers gripping harder into Dutch’s bicep. “You’ve set up camp next door to a bunch of territorial killer hillbillies! Was that decision part of Micah’s ‘wildness’ too?”

Dutch cast him a dark, grim look and shook his arm free, but didn’t answer. “Go on, boys,” he said to Arthur and Charles. “Lenny, show me these lamps you saw. Hosea-.”

“I know what to do,” the conman said, waving him away. “Be careful, all of you.”

The four men nodded in response, then disappeared into the darkness around camp, leaving Hosea staring at shadows. Shaking himself, he turned back to the others, most of which were either holding a gun in a death grip or holding onto each other even tighter. Abigail had an arm around Jack and Ana, Molly looked like she was about to cry, and Strauss was huddled down behind Swanson, using the reverend’s larger form as a shield. The wide scared eyes that stared at him brought responsibility snapping back and he moved toward them.

“They won’t be coming from one direction, if they reach us,” he said, scanning the shadows for movement that hadn’t come yet. “Everyone; backs to Pearson’s wagon. Girls, Swanson, Uncle, pull those crates in a circle so we’re covered on all sides. I want folks with a gun in front and everyone else behind them.” He snapped his fingers at Kieran and pointed to the butchering table. “Help me flip this thing on its side.”

The others did as told, shoving crates that had formerly been seats into a half-circle beside the wagon as Kieran quickly mirrored Hosea in grabbing the end of the heavy table and tilting it on it’s side so one edge thudded heavily in the earth to create a barrier. Susan pushed the girls and the children down so they were shielded by the large slab of wood, then took up guard at one side of it, shotgun in hand as Karen took the other, both staring intensely out into the darkness.

“You think there will a lot of these bastards?” the older woman hissed, her fingers curling so tightly around the barrel of her gun they turned white.

“From what I know of them, yes,” Hosea said. He picked up the rifles set aside for guard duty and put them in Pearson, Uncle, and Swanson’s hands. The reverend stared at the gun he held, then up at Hosea.

“Mr. Matthews-.”

“You’ll fight for us, if you have to,” Hosea said firmly, putting a steady hand on the man’s shoulder. “To protect us.”

Swanson’s face was pale and his mouth drawn to a line, but he nodded and followed Uncle back to the wagon. The last rifle in his hand, Hosea turned to Kieran and held the gun out.

“Alright, boy, time to prove yourself as a van der Linde.”

The young man took the gun with hesitance, but there was no reluctance in him when he hopped over a crate and put the rifle to his shoulder. Hosea was the last behind the make-shift fort, joining the others after throwing several logs on the campfire so it blazed even higher.

“Don’t I get a rifle?” Strauss asked, and Hosea shook his head, ushering him down behind Swanson and Pearson. “I would very much like a gun.”

“Gun: yes, rifle: no,” Hosea said, unholstering one of his own Cattlemen and handing it to the man. “Only use it if it’s absolutely necessary, Mr. Strauss; I’d prefer not to be accidently shot in the back of the head tonight.”

Making sure everyone was accounted for, he took his hunting rifle from his back and crouched, propping the gun on a crate and peering in the direction Dutch had vanished. There had been no more screams, nor any gunshots, and Hosea wasn’t sure if he was relieved or concerned. He’d have preferred some sort of noise over the dead silence that descended on them now as they sat in their barricade and waited. Though he kept his eyes trained on the forest, Hosea could feel his family around him, see them in his mind as clearly as though he were staring directly in their faces. Expressions of utmost seriousness, he knew he would find, even on young Jack’s face as the boy kept a tight hold on Cain’s fur. A light sniffle to his left told him Molly hadn’t been able to keep back the tears from before, but other than Swanson shifting position, and the heavy breathing of fearful people, there was only silence.

Seconds passed in which they all remained motionless and ready, then minutes, and Hosea felt his muscles beginning to cramp for how still and tense he was. Despite himself, he began to worry.

“What is going on out there?” Pearson muttered, a drop of sweat falling from the tip of his nose into his moustache. “Where are those boys? And Mrs. Adler?”

“It’s been too long,” Karen agreed, lowering her gun a bit and rolling her shoulders back before resuming her position. “You’d think they-.”

A bloodcurdling scream that had Hosea’s hair standing on end ripped through the darkness, then cut short, sending them all springing up with fingers heavy on the triggers. The sound had dropped off far too suddenly for it’s ending to be anything but a kill, and the source was close, very close, barely past the far wagon. Every inch of Hosea’s body was at the ready, and it took all his strength of will not to shoot immediately when a figured emerged from the shadows.

“Dutch,” he sighed, but he was far from relaxed. The outlaw was covered in blood, too much for it all to be his, the crimson liquid shining in the firelight where it stained Dutch’s clothes and skin and hair. “Where is everyone?”

He moved forward instinctively, to go to Dutch, to make sure he was alright, but was stopped by a hand raised in warning. Eyes flickering back and forth, the outlaw approached the makeshift barricade, and Hosea saw he had his hunting knife in hand rather than a gun.

“What is it?” the conman asked a low tone as Dutch reached him, separated only by a crate. Backlight by the flames, he couldn’t clearly make out the man’s face, but his tone was slightly breathless as he leaned into Hosea.

“We’re tryin’ to take them out quietly,” the outlaw muttered, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and spitting out a glob of blood. “Charles said they’ll rush us if we’re too outwardly aggressive.” His gaze wandered over the people behind Hosea. “If we can take a number of them out, we might be able to avoid a big fight.”

“How many?” Hosea asked, tight-lipped, and Dutch frowned at him- no, not at him -at the idea that their family was still in danger. “How  _ many _ , Dutch?”

“I don’t know,” came the grumbled response. “But I think-.”

“LOOK OUT!”

Kieran’s shriek came almost too late. Almost, but not quite, and Hosea’s hand slammed against the side of Dutch’s head, knocking him to the side as the rusty hatchet whistled past their ears and thudded into the wagon behind them. The Murfree who threw it came charging with a wild yell, but a bullet buried itself in his head and the man dropped to the ground. Hosea spun around to see Swanson with his gun still raised, not a single tremor weakening his hands.

“We got more!” the reverend bellowed, sending off another shot, and before Hosea could blink, the clearing was filled with the hollers of incoming Murfrees. Dutch vaulted the crate and landed at a crouch beside Hosea, drawing his revolvers as Hosea set the rifle to his shoulder. Squinting down the barrel he took a breath, released, and down went a Murfree. Again. And again. And again. But they didn’t stop coming, even as Susan demolished skulls with shotgun shells and Uncle picked off the ones in the trees, and even Pearson took down his fair share of the murderous attackers. Ana was sobbing where she and Jack were pressed up by Abigail, the women using her body to shield the to youngsters. The little group hidden by the table screamed in unison when a machete blade thunked into the upper edge of the wood as the barbaric face of a Murfree peered over it. His face soon connected with the table too, bone cracking loudly as Karen rammed the butt of her gun on the back of the man’s head.

“They’re getting too close!” Karen yelled, whipping back around to shoot a Murfree in the face seconds before he reached the barricade.

“We need to fall back,” Dutch growled as he furiously rammed bullets into the chamber. Hosea rose up, took out a fellow who was about throw a hatchet at Swanson, and ducked back down.

“There’s nowhere to fall back  _ to _ ,” he snapped. “We’re in the middle of their woods!”

“This is  _ not _ the time to argue about our choice of location!” Dutch stood up, using both revolvers to send shot after shot into the swarming crowd of Murfrees. Hosea caught hold of his belt, yanking him back into cover.

“It’s also not the time for theatrics! You want a hatchet in your skull?”

A series of shrieks had the men spinning around to see a Murfree had gotten past Susan and Karen, both women too overwhelmed to hold them all at bay, and was clambering toward the girls and children. Both Hosea and Dutch aimed their weapons, realized they were likely to hit a friend, and paused in a moment of indecision.

“Stop!” Tilly screamed, leaping to her feet and spreading her arms out over the others, but the man never reached her. As she stood, Cain leapt out from behind her, jaw snapping and teeth clamping down on the Murfree’s arm. Wheeling backwards with a screech, the man raised the knife in his other hand and Jack cried out,

“ _ CAIN _ !”

But Hosea finally had a clear shot, and he pulled the rifle’s trigger before the blade could hit the loyal dog’s side. Cain stood up over the body, barking madly, and Molly pulled Tilly back to the ground, but the damage had been done. While they had been sufficiently distracted by the single Murfree, several others had gotten right on top of the group. Casting his rifle aside, Hosea drew his knife from its place at his hip and sank it into the chest of the second Murfree to jump the crates. The first fell to Dutch and a stab in the neck, showering the outlaw in a fresh spray of blood.

There was no more shooting to be done now, not when the chances of hitting a companion were as high as killing an enemy. They were overrun. Pearson had picked up his meat cleaver and was nearly as frightening as the Murfrees themselves, the way he hacked and chopped the attackers, and Kieran was screaming, but Hosea was too busy grappling a fellow trying to stick a knife in his gut to tell if the boy was dying or just frightened.

Landing a solid kick to the man’s middle, he shoved him backwards onto the machete in Dutch’s hand and spun around in preparation for the next attacker. His back spasmed suddenly as he moved, and he faltered. All at once he was slammed up against the side of the wagon, a heavy, dirty body pressing him into the wood, and he flailed blindly until the knife in his hand made contact. As the Murfree fell back, the bladee was torn from his grasp and Hosea threw out a hand to brace himself on the wagon. His breathing was heavy, erratic- why was it so much harder to breathe now that he was thinking about it? -but there was no time to dwell on it, for Mary-Beth was crying his name and he had to lift his head to see the young woman scrambling backwards as a Murfree pursued her up against the wagon wheel.

He had no knife, he had nothing but his revolvers, and he already knew his hands were shaking; a wild shot might hit Susan, or Tilly, who was beating another man into the ground with a stick. Glancing upward, his eyes caught sight of the first hatchet, still buried in the wagon.

Mary-Beth screamed as the Murfree grabbed her hair in a fist, and she threw up her hands in a useless attempt to shield herself. A moment later her arms were splattered in blood and bone as the hatchet in Hosea’s grasp shattered the man’s skull, sending him slumping down on top of her.

“Hosea! Thank you- Oh my gosh-.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Hosea huffed, yanking the weapon from the body with one hand and pulling her to her feet with the other. He thrust the hatchet into her grip, making sure she had a tight hold on it before letting go. “We’re not out of it yet.”

“I-,” she began, then her eyes widened and she shouted, “Look out!”

He felt the hand clamp down on his shoulder before he could turn. Yanked backwards, his feet slipped and he slammed into the ground, sending shockwaves of pain up and down his back. His vision blurred as his head knocked hard against earth, but the glint of firelight off a machete was all too clear, and he threw his hand up so the edge of the blade hit his palm instead of his neck. Later, he would be relieved that the blade had been far too dull to slice far into his hand.

“Get off of him!” Mary-Beth shrieked, swinging the hatchet a little recklessly, but getting the job done when the Murfree’s arm disconnected from his body. Hosea tossed the machete arm aside, punched the man in the face, and sent him tumbling to the side in a writhing mess until Uncle sent a well-aimed shot into his head.

“Too- many-,” Hosea gasped, struggling to sit up. Mary-Beth made to help him, but was quickly distracted by Abigail shouting for help as she swiped a knife at two oncoming Murfrees. Hosea propped up onto his elbows, prepared to get back on his feet, but as he made to push himself to his feet, a boot connected suddenly with his chest.

Shoved back to the ground with a heavy foot keeping him pinned, the first shred of panic joined his anger when gap-toothed smile of a Murfree was suddenly peering down at him from above. He reached for his gun, but the Murfree stomped on his arm instead and ragged-nailed fingers wrapped around his neck. Hosea’s hands went to pull at the man’s wrist, but the Murfree was stronger than he and his struggles only accelerated the flow of air leaving his lungs.

“Dutch!” he yelled, almost desperate, and he heard his name shouted in that deep, baritone with only the slightest crack, but it was muffled. The Murfree bent low and Hosea felt the point of a knife dig into the cloth of his vest, just below his sternum.

“I’m gonna gut you like a fish,” the man grinned, and Hosea writhed even harder, desperately trying to free himself, but there was no need.

The crack of a gun sounded, not from anywhere beside him, but from across camp, and the Murfree collapsed as a dead weight on top of the conman, knocking what little air he had left completely from his lungs. Dizzy from lack of oxygen, Hosea nonetheless fought to unbury himself from beneath the dead man as the shouts of Sean, Javier, Sadie, and the others who had gone off into the forest reached his ears. A hand grabbed his arm and he recoiled, but then Dutch’s voice was in his ear as the Murfree was rolled off of him.

“Get up, old girl! The calvary’s here!”

“Bit late,” Hosea wheezed, getting to his feet with Dutch’s help. The Murfrees were scattering now, their focus divided between those in camp and the ones who had only just returned. Armed with machetes and hatchets no doubt taken from previously defeated Murfrees, Arthur and the others brutally plowed their way through camp. Leaning heavily on Dutch’s arm, Hosea watched as Sadie cut down a man with a ferocious yell, Charles tossed throwing knives in the faces of two more, and Bill tackled a man from behind before shooting him in the head. Within moments the Murfrees were overwhelmed from both sides, and the ones at the edges began breaking off, running into the hills.

“Don’t let them escape!” Dutch roared, drawing his guns and sending a fleeing man sprawling to the ground. “I don’t want a single one to walk away alive!”

Hosea pulled out his own revolver, but he didn’t shoot, simply stood at Dutch’s back and watched the Murfree’s fall or run, and those that fled were quickly dropped by well-aimed shots.

“Get back here, son!” he yelled as John started after a man that had gotten further than the others, “Don’t go alone!”

“Stop him!” Dutch countered, and Arthur lifted his rifle, sending a deadly accurate shot past John into the escapee. “ _ None _ of them go free!”

“Hosea-.”

Tilly’s call caught his attention, and he turned to her, satisfied that the others could take care of the few remaining Murfrees. He moved toward where the unarmed women and children huddled, and Tilly crashed into his chest, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“Sweet pea, please,” he gasped, wincing as lighting sparked through his back, “I’m a little sore.”

“I thought you was gonna die when that man pulled you down. If Mary-Beth hadn’t used that hatchet….”

“Mary-Beth did a fine job,” Hosea said, smiling over the girl’s hair to where the other young woman stood, said hatchet still clenched tightly in her hands. Then his gaze drifted further, and his heart leapt to his throat upon seeing Abigail sitting on the ground, holding her blood-soaked side. “Abby!”

Every motion hurt like hell and he wondered he didn’t pass out already, but nothing could stop him from unwrapping himself from Tilly’s arms and going quickly to Abigail’s side. He crouched beside her, prying her fingers away from the wound. “Let me see.”

“Ain’t nothin’,” Abigail declared, her voice high and tight with pain even as she pet her other hand gently through Jack’s hair. “Just a scratch.”

“It’s-!” Hosea began, then caught himself, hyper aware of the children staring at him. “It’s fine. You’ll be fine.”

“Abigail?” John’s rough voice came around the upturned table first, then the man was dropping to his knees by his partner. “What the hell? How’d you let this happen?”

“Don’t sound so concerned, John Marston,” Abigail snapped. “It’s all my fault I got stabbed trying to protect our son!”

John’s face twisted. “I didn’t mean-.”

“Can you at least get Jack away from this mess?” She motioned to the carnage around them, letting out a soft gasp at the movement. “I don’t need no child of mine seeing so much blood.”

John hesitated, his hand reaching out to rest on Abigail’s knee, but Hosea nudged him with his elbow. “She’s right. Get the kids out of here. Put them in one of the wagons.” Looking around, he found the others had finished with their task of extermination and were kicking the bodies to assure they were truly dead. “Tilly, Mary-Beth, Molly; you go too. Get cleaned up, but do not, I repeat  _ do not _ , leave the firelight.”

“I’m keeping this,” Mary-Beth said, lifting the hatchet, and Molly made a disgusted face as blood dripped off the end. Hosea cast her a weary smile.

“Good girl.”

The girls moved off, stopping to coax a battered and bruised Kieran to his feet to accompany them. John left as well, casting a long look at Abigail before ushering Jack and Ana toward one of the other wagons. Susan eyed Karen, who nodded sharply before taking up her shotgun and walking to the edge of the firelight to stand watch. Javier, Sean and Lenny were already doing the same for the other three directions, while the rest of the men were beginning to haul bodies out of camp to dump in a pile out of sight.

“The Reverend and I will take care of her,” Susan said, nodding to Abigail, who had sunk back against the table. “Nothing you can do that we can’t.” She whistled, catching Swanson’s attention, and the man dropped the rifle he was holding and trotted over, swiftly kneeling at Abigail’s side.

“She’ll be alright, Mr. Matthews,” he said gently, and Abigail waved a hand.

“Of course I will.”

Hosea leaned forward, giving her a quick kiss on the top of her head before pushing himself to his feet with a groan. Uncle and Strauss were sitting, exhausted, on a pair of crates, and the latter held Hosea’s gun out as he passed by.

“Keep it for now,” the conman said. “Just in case.”

Cain was lying at the men’s feet, and Hosea took the dog’s calmness as a good sign that they were safe. At least for now.

Speaking of which….

“I’m going to have a word with Micah when he gets back,” Hosea said, coming to a halt at Dutch’s shoulder and crossing his arms, wincing a bit as he curved his wounded hand. The outlaw was standing over a Murfree body, studying the corpse. “He’s lucky he wasn’t here; I might have shoved him in front of a machete myself.”

“He was right about one thing,” Dutch said, digging a cigar out his vest pocket and lighting it. “The law sure won’t find us here.”

“And certainly not if we’re all dead by killer hillbillies,” Hosea remarked. Arthur and Sadie were carrying a body out of camp and as he watched them drop it on the growing pile, he realized the sun was rising; the world was slowly turning gray, sunlight beginning to reluctantly illuminate the blood-soaked earth at their feet.

“He didn’t know,” Dutch said. “You didn’t, I didn’t. And we took care of the problem.” He spread his arms, gesturing to the body before them. “Hell, we may have saved lives by killing this lot!”

“We were ill-prepared, and it could have cost us,” Hosea countered. “It’s a miracle we only have cuts and scrapes, not including Abigail’s side. We’re fortunate that we all survived.”

Dutch turned to him, eyes bright. “But we  _ did  _ survive, Hosea. We lived through the night and emerged into the dawn as victors! Doesn’t it make you feel a  _ little  _ happy, a  _ little  _ proud of us?”

With weary eyes, Hosea took note of the gash on Arthur’s cheek, the blood on Lenny’s shirt, and the limp in Javier’s left leg. And yet they didn’t stop, didn’t pause in their work for a moment. “We’ve got a strong family,” he said softly, “It would simply be nice if they didn’t have to be so strong all the time.”

“As soon as we’re sure there’s no more of those bastards lurking about, they’ll all get a chance to rest,” Dutch said. “Now why don’t you get that hand taken care of and have a sit down? You deserve it.”

“That’s not what I….”

But Dutch had already walked off, motioning Arthur and Charles over for a talk. Hosea uncrossed his arms and took a step toward his bedroll, only to realize it was stained with blood. Letting out a coarse sigh, he switched directions and headed toward where Susan and Swanson had Abigail in Arthur’s bed. Never mind resting…there was too much to be done in the aftermath of chaos.

-

The sun was descending in the sky when Hosea woke, and perhaps it was the light that wakened him, creeping under the canvas roof of Arthur’s tent to warm his face. He woke quickly, squinting his eyes against the glare to find himself in the same position he’d been in when he’d fallen asleep; sitting with his legs crossed in a chair, a chair that sat beside the bed where Abigail slept with his fingers threaded between hers. The only difference was Dutch leaning against the wagon, a cigarette loose in his grasp. The outlaw’s eyes rested on the conman’s face…and Hosea lifted his eyelids soon enough to catch a glimpse of the soft expression on Dutch’s countenance before the man’s gaze quickly slid to the side.

“Creep,” Hosea yawned. “Watching me while a sleep.”

“I’m allowed to admire the more beautiful things in life,” Dutch said, taking a drag on the cigarette as Hosea rolled his eyes.

“I ain’t exactly a Renaissance work,” he huffed, turning his head to look at Abigail. She remained asleep, but her face wasn’t as pale as it had been and her breathing was steady. Similarly, his hand no longer hurt, though it felt sore when he curled his fingers too tightly. Relief washed through him as he remembered that they hadn’t lost anyone the night before, despite the odds. “I’m more of an antique these days.”

“‘The question is not what you look at, but what you see’,” Dutch quoted, and Hosea raised an eyebrow.

“Is that Thoreau?”

“You tell me,” Dutch replied. Hosea racked his mind for a proper quote to respond with, but his exhausted mind came up with nothing suitable, so he forwent a clever reply.

“I’d say it is.” A swift observation of camp told him that a good amount of cleaning had been done while he was asleep; the blood on the ground had been washed away with a substantial amount of water, and the Murfree bodies were gone, discarded of properly, he assumed. “Where’d the corpses go?”

“Some of the boys are burning them downstream,” Dutch replied, confirming Hosea’s guess. “I sent Arthur, Charles and Sadie to find where those monsters came from and clear out the rest, if there’s any left. We took out a small army last night.”

Hosea refrained from making another comment about the choice of location and removed his hand from Abigail’s; he was in desperate need of a cup of coffee if he was to put in any work for the rest of the day, and he made to get up. Instead of assuming a standing position, however, he found himself falling back before he’d fully risen, a choked yelp escaping his mouth as his body seized up in harsh objection of the movement. The heavy landing back into the chair did nothing to help, and his fingers curled around the edges of the seat as he bit back a scream.

Dutch sprang away from the wagon, discarding his cigarette to the ground as he darted to Hosea and grabbed his shoulders, but that made it worse,  _ so much worse _ , and he fought back the instinct to faint, gasping out, “ _ Don’t touch me _ ,” as his vision turned white.

The moment Dutch moved away, recoiling like he’d been shot, Hosea could see again, but the pain was still there, burning up and down his back and joined by sharp lightning that shot through his legs and coiled at his hips.

“Hosea, can you hear me?”

He recognized the sound of Dutch speaking to him, though he wasn’t sure how many times the question had been asked. The outlaw was at his side now, back to the rest of camp, and Hosea realized the man was using himself to shield the conman from being seen by the others. He wanted to thank him, but the thought of talking scared him as much as the idea of trying to move any muscles, even down to the wiggle of a single pinky finger. Dutch’s tone was becoming slightly frantic now, however hard he was attempting to give the semblance of calm.

“Hosea, answer me. Are you okay? Dearest, I need an answer from you, please.”

“Not…dearest.” Words didn’t hurt as much as he’d feared. “Not here.”

Dutch’s stance visibly relaxed, but he stayed where he was, half bent over Hosea without touching him. “Your back?”

“My everything,” Hosea grunted. The shockwave of pain was fading, and he made an experimental shift with his leg. A small burst shot up his thigh and he froze again. “Guess I’m not made for…punching hillbillies in the face no more.” He tried to chuckle, but the laugh got stuck in his throat.

“What do you want me to do?” Dutch asked, and Hosea closed his eyes, trying to assess the limitations of his body. The thrumming ache in every joint and muscle made it difficult to concentrate, but what he knew for sure was that he didn’t want anyone to coddle him, particularly not John, and certainly not Arthur. The boy would worry for days, he knew, if not longer, and there was no call to put his son through any more distress than he already suffered.

“I’ll just sit here,” he sighed. “It’ll right itself if I don’t move much.”

Dutch shifted his stance a fraction and Hosea could read displeasure in the movement. “Why don’t we get you to my tent instead, so you can lie down in a bed tonight?”

“It’s not so bad,” Hosea insisted, trying not to imagine the comfort of Dutch’s cot, or the privacy of canvas walls, or the heavy warmth of arms holding him as he fell asleep. His reasons for wanting such things were purely selfish, and no good would come of them sharing a bed again. “Just let me be.”

“No. Look at you, you can’t even move-.”

“I said I’m fine!” Hosea hissed, only just remembering to keep his tone low. “Treat me as a man, not a child!”

Dutch pulled away, running a hand roughly over his moustache and chin before nodding stiffly and turning toward the center of camp. Hosea’s heart felt impossibly tight in his chest as the outlaw took the first couple of steps away, and he dropped his gaze, sinking back into the chair with a whimper he couldn’t hold in.

A few steps more and Dutch was turning around, coming back with his hands held out in a beggarly fashion. “I’ll treat you like a man, Hosea,” he said, “A proud, foolish man who needs a bed. Let me take care of you.”

“If you must.” Hosea readily surrendered with relief, carefully lifting his arm so Dutch could assist in getting him up. He could stand on his own, and walk, though it hurt like a son of a bitch. “I…wanted you to….”

“I know,” Dutch murmured, keeping one hand on the small of Hosea’s back as they walked slowly to the tent a few yards away. “You’re not so hard to read as you think, old girl.”

The short walk to the tent was far more difficult than it should have been; this was worse than when he’d fallen in the woods. Halfway there he had to pause and collect himself, breathing through his nose to trick his body into thinking it wasn’t in so much pain after all. Dutch simply stood beside him, waiting and smoking a new cigarette he’d pulled from his pocket. The illusion of normalcy was grounding enough that it only took a few moments for Hosea to convince himself to start walking again. This instance reminded him of a time when he’d been thrown by a wild horse Arthur had brought back to camp with the naive intention of taming it. He’d been stuck in bed for three days then. That was when Bessie was alive, and he was not the younger man he had been then; a midnight battle was no longer something he should take part in.

When they were through the tent flaps, Dutch’s facade of ease shattered like glass, bringing Hosea right down with him. They both collapsed to the bed, Dutch sinking to the mattress beside the other man as Hosea let the breath he’d been holding out in a series of coughs that only disrupted his muscles further. 

“God dammit,” he choked out, gripping the cloth of his trousers so it bunched over his knees. He felt like he was falling apart, one piece at a time, like a corpse that refused to lie in its grave despite the rotting of its body. “ _ Dammit _ .”

His anger at himself did nothing but prolong the heaving of his lungs and the pain in his back, and it was with great difficulty that he finally leaned back against Dutch’s chest. The outlaw hadn’t laid a finger on him the entire time, only encouraged, “breath, Hosea, don’t talk,  _ breath _ ,” but with the sudden closeness, he wrapped his arms carefully around Hosea from behind.

“How are we doing?” he whispered, his tone low, as if speaking too loudly would cause more agony.

“I’m so tired of it all,” Hosea replied, then let out a whimper as Dutch’s grip tightened around him. “I’m not made for this sort of work anymore.”

“You  _ are  _ this sort of work, Hosea,” Dutch said firmly, “You’re not you without it. When were you ever happy with a sedentary life?”

_ Bessie _ .

He could have been satisfied in a cabin in the woods, could have killed deer in place of men, picked cabbages and tomatoes instead of pockets. But not in the way he and Bessie did it...just the two of them ladened down with the memories of everyone back at camp.

He could recall as clear as day the evening he’d broken down weeping, telling her wanted to go home. “I’m a terrible man, and a worse husband,” he’d sobbed into her skirt, and she’d smiled and run her fingers through his hair.

“I know what you are,” she’d said, her voice as beautiful and warm as a summer’s day. “You are a husband, and a father, a lover and a friend. I know what you are, Hosea, and none of them are a bad man.”

With her love and her forgiveness she’d brought him back to Dutch, and let herself return to the life of an outlaw that went hand-in-hand with the man. At least, in the end, Bessie had not fallen to his lifestyle, not as Annabelle had. But he had felt like a bad man for making her marry a conman and a gunslinger.

“You promised me a ranch,” he sighed now to Dutch, in the tent by the spoiled waters of Elysian Pool. “You promised me a real home. We’re not young anymore. At least  _ I’m  _ not young anymore, but you’re no spring chicken either.”

“You can’t tell me you won’t miss this.” Dutch’s tone was critical. “The  _ freedom _ to live as we choose with no one to tell us how to do it?”

“And the freedom to die without getting to say goodbye.”

“Never a positive word from you, is there?”

“Not when I have to worry about my family dyin’ every hour of the day!” Hosea took in a short breath and expelled it in a harsh cough. “We stepped over lines we shouldn’t have crossed and bothered folks we shouldn’t have messed with. Cornwall was a step too far, Dutch, especially with the Pinkertons and O’Driscolls already breathing down our necks.”

“Cornwall is a bastard and a villain.” Dutch drew back from Hosea, unfolding him from his arms and rising from the bed. The mattress shifted as he stood up and Hosea put out a hand to steady himself, hissing at the shockwave of pain that flared up his side. “We’ve always robbed from those you can spare it. You’re acting like what we did was some sort of wrong.”

“You’re acting like a hero,” Hosea bit back, “Which you’ve never been!”

The temperature in the room dropped as Dutch looked down at Hosea, his face thunderous. “You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me,” he growled. “Drunk in a ditch, or dead in one, or conning folks a lot poorer than Cornwall, that’s where you’d be. So don’t pretend  _ I’m _ the sinner here.”

Hosea stared up at him, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth hurt. Years of arguments told him to wait, to let Dutch recognize the words he’d spoken and watch as the outlaw’s face crumpled in regret. But Dutch’s expression stayed the same, dark and closed against Hosea’s gaze, and the conman looked away first, unable to take the look in Dutch’s eyes any longer.

“Hey.” Arthur poked his head into the tent, brow furrowing at the sight of Dutch standing with clenched fists and Hosea’s lowered gaze. “Micah’s back and he wants to talk with you. Wasn’t sure if you wanted him interrupting-.”

The tent flap was pushed back farther and Arthur let out a grunt of annoyance as Micah peered in at his shoulder. “Got some good news, Boss! Real good news! Unless you’re still busy with the old man…?”

“No.” Dutch shook his head. “We’re done here.” His hand rested on Hosea’s shoulder, so sudden that the conman jumped. “Just rest, friend; you clearly need it.”

Hosea shivered involuntarily as Dutch moved away, following Micah outside into the setting sun. Arthur lingered at the entrance for a moment, waiting until the other two were gone before saying, “Need anything?”

Tears sprang to Hosea’s eyes and he fought the sob that welled in his throat…though this time it hadn’t come on from sorrow or pain, but from the gentleness of Arthur’s question. “I’m fine, dear boy,” he said, aware of how congested his words sounded. “There ain’t nothing I need.”

Arthur shifted a moment, then reached into his satchel and dug out his journal. Fully entering the tent, he let the flaps fall shut at his back as he sat down on the end of the cot. “How about some company? I found a new kind of bird the other day.”

Hosea swallowed thickly and silently said a prayer of thanks for this man who was unlucky enough to be his son. “Tell me about it,” he replied, tilting his head to see the page of the book. “Looks like a sparrow to me.”

“The colors are different; I couldn’t capture them with a pencil.” Arthur pointed at the drawing. “I wrote down what they were, though. See, it’s got some blue….”

During the next hour, Hosea discussed wildlife with Arthur, and for a little while he could pretend the worries of the world weren’t weighing on his shoulder...and for a moment he forgot to feel guilty for experiencing happiness as they sat together in the warm enclosure of Dutch’s tent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly listened to Odin's Sword by Fred Bouchal while writing this chapter but for the last scene I had Dancing With Your Ghost by Sasha Sloane on repeat.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading :)  
> Instagram: @nevareck_tophatcat  
> Twitter: @NeveWaBoink


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